


Elementary 19: The Baker Street Years VIII (1898-1900)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Claiming Bites, Cuddling & Snuggling, Destiel - Freeform, Double Penetration, F/M, Gay Sex, London, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Case 92. THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Dancing Men')</b><br/>Case 93. SHADOW (The Case of James Phillimore And His Umbrella)<br/>Case 94. THE RAPTURE (The Peculiar Case Of Isadora Persano)<br/>Case 95. LONG DISTANCE CALL (The Affair At Foulkes Rath)<br/><b>Case 96. ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE (formerly 'The Problem Of Thor Bridge')</b><br/><b>Case 97. HUNTERI HEROICI (formerly 'The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons')</b><br/>Case 98. THE BENDERS (The Conk-Singleton Forgery Case)<br/>Case 99. 99 PROBLEMS (The Case Of The Zinc Filings)<br/>Case 100. META FICTION (The Case Of The Abernetty Family, And The Parsley That Sank Into The Butter)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

I was out of commission, as the saying goes, for the six months after my brush with death at the hands of the railway companies. And to think some people talked about flying trains, that could magically lift people from one country to another! I would sooner die than go in any such contraption!

I did not find out the whole story behind my brush with the Grim Reaper until late in August, when Peter Greenwood finally declared me fit. Only then did Cas tell me the truth about the vile Alistair Campbell, who was currently undertaking a new and for once useful career as fish food. The way his voice shook and his eyes teared up when he told me that – well, as everyone knows, Dean Winchester does not do emotions. 

Much.

We were both in our late forties at this time, and in some strange way I found myself coming to value Cas even more as the years passed. Not that I had not valued him in our early years together, but I could increasingly find myself looking at him and wondering how on earth I had got so lucky. He bore with my uncertainties and mother-hen tendencies – he was a nightmare patient when ill, whilst I was a doctor who had a panic attack if he so much as sniffed – with stoicism, and often times he would catch me giving him a look, and smile at me over his glasses, as we sat in front of a warm fire in Baker Street, two alphas just happy to sit there together.

All right, the sex that usually followed that smile was great as well!


	2. Case 92: The Song Remains The Same (1898)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Dancing Men'.

I

It was a cold November morning, and I was seriously annoyed. I waved the Times at Cas across the breakfast table.  
   
“This obnoxious Scottish personage has been given valuable newspaper space to pontificate about how badly his country is doing out of the Union!” I scoffed. “Badly? When Scots occupy some of the top positions in government, and Edinburgh and Glasgow are the great cities they never were before 1707? Piffle!”  
   
“You feel strongly about this”, Cas observed from over his coffee. He was only halfway through his first cup of the day, so extracting such an in-depth observation was an achievement indeed.  
   
“I do”, I said. “England is a nation of great history and tradition, but all that has been subsumed in the Unions with the Scots and Irish. If they want to leave, then fine. They’d none of them be missed, and the Welsh can sod off with them!”  
   
My friend smiled at my vehemence, but said nothing. I little knew that I was just days away from a piece of English culture that, albeit indirectly, would bring us our next case.  
   
+~+~+

The autumn of 'Ninety-Eight continued on its frosty way, and my mood did not improve. A few weeks later, I was once more sounding off across the breakfast-table, this time over the news that someone had been injured in one of those newfangled electric horseless carriages, or cars, that had crashed (the death-traps had claimed their first victim earlier that year, when another vehicle had run away down a hill and crashed into a tree). I had always said these 'automobiles' were dangerous! Possibly (as in certainly) Cas was relieved when my rantings were interrupted by the announcement of a visitor.  
   
“Mr. Herbert Irons”, Mrs. Singer stated, and withdrew.  
   
Our visitor was an omega, about fifty years of age, balding and bespectacled. Yet he had a determined air about him, and did not hesitate before setting about his business.  
   
“Mr. Novak”, he said politely. “I would like to request your assistance in a somewhat unusual case in Hampshire.”

My thoughts immediately flew to the village of Stoke Fratrum, and my son Master Benjamin Braeden. From Cas' sideways glance, he knew that all too well.  
   
“A county I have not often had cause to visit”, he said, eyeing me cautiously, “though I have passed through it on several occasions. What sort of case is it, sir?”  
   
“Someone is trying to frighten us”, he said firmly. I raised an eyebrow.  
   
“Kindly take a seat, sir”, Cas said, gesturing to the fireside chair. “Let us begin by your defining who you mean by ‘us’.”  
   
Our visitor sat down.  
   
“I am a member of the Bishops Waltham and Mainsbridge Morris Men”, he began. “It is a small-scale hobby of mine, but lately, we have been losing members. I had at first thought it was just one of those things, but Jack Wilby, who left us last month, admitted that he had been threatened to quit the group by a stranger in the pub. The man even knew that he had a boy at the local school, and Jack was afraid lest he be targeted, so he did as he was told.”  
   
“I am surprised no attempt was made to prevent his talking to you”, Cas said. Our visitor blushed.  
   
“Jack was, as the saying goes, ‘in his cups’ at the time”, he said quietly.  
   
“Ah”, Cas smiled. “Go on.”  
   
“Most us live some little distance apart, the area covering many square miles to the east of the town of Southampton”, he said. “My fellow omega Ben Thomas and I work at the same bank in Bishop’s Waltham, however. We were in the town square at lunch yesterday, and I had gone to the bakery to fetch some cakes for us. When I returned, I saw a tall blond alpha standing far too close to him, looking quite threatening. I called out and hurried over, but he ran off.”  
   
“And now Mr. Thomas wants to withdraw as well?” Cas asked.  
   
“No”, Mr. Irons said proudly. “Neither he nor I will buckle to such intimidation. But the dances we perform need a certain number of people, and we are down to the bare bones as it is.”  
   
“I did not even know Morris Men still existed”, I admitted, feeling a little shame-faced as I said it.  
   
“We barely do”, Mr. Irons admitted. “We perform four major events a year once midway through each season. Hamble in Spring, Botley in Summer, Bishop’s Waltham in Autumn and Sholing in Winter. We are just beginning preparations for the Sholing Morris, so this could not have come at a worse time.”  
   
Cas thought for a moment.  
   
“Would anyone benefit from the group’s disbandment?” he asked.  
   
“I suppose it could be said that we foster a sense of community in the four places we perform”, Mr. Irons said. “We always spend the money gathered in the local area that we gather it in; we pay for our own costumes, of course. Last year the moneys we raised paid for some new street-lighting in Botley, the relaying of the village green in Sholing, the cleaning of the area around the fountain in Bishop’s Waltham and some new benches for the riverside walk in Hamble. But that hardly seems cause to threaten us.”  
   
“Indeed”, Cas said. “You have successfully excited my curiosity, sir. The doctor and I will visit your fair county, and we will see what we shall see.”  
   
II  
   


Two days later, we decamped to Waterloo Station, and a London and South Western Railway express to the great and still-growing ocean port of Southampton. I of course was reminded of another journey that had begun at Waterloo which had ended in my discovery of a son I had never known. Judging from the way that Cas took my hand once we were in our carriage, he was thinking much the same.

To traverse the last two miles of our journey proved quite difficult, as the railway company, for reasons of its own, had built the route to go back north, then east across the river and finally south before our little train rumbled into the pretty wayside station of Sholing. It was not what I had expected, being clearly some way advanced to becoming another suburb of the city, although there were several undeveloped areas which we passed in our five-minute walk from the station up to the green. The green itself was also a surprise, a large triangle of land that fell away on one side as one of the three roads that bordered it ran down a steep hill. Cas eyed it thoughtfully.  
   
“This would be ideal building land”, he remarked. “High, so no chance of flooding from the river we can see down in the valley, and that same river provides a handy water supply. And if the houses were the right shape, then a small area of grass could be maintained as a private green for them all. Plus, it is close to the railway station. I wonder if this may be our motive?”  
   
“Developers?” I asked.  
   
“Lots of people benefit from more houses”, Cas pointed out. “That shop over there, for example” - he gestured to a small shop at the crossroads by the green - “would welcome the extra custom. Similarly the taverns in the area, and the transport companies. No, we need to know more.”

He suggested we repair to the little church we had passed on our way up, and talk with the vicar. St. Mary's turned out to be larger than it had seemed from the road, a curious hodgepodge of a structure as if the builder hadn't been able to choose between a number of different design styles, and had gone for a bit of everything. The Reverend James Murphy was a tall patrician of a priest, and was more than willing to answer our questions as to the developments in the area.

“Sholing only became part of the city back in the 'twenties”, he explained, “and the main road east over the River Itchen at Northam by-passes us, so we tend to the insular. Though there is a floating bridge across to the city at Woolston, which you must have passed through on your way down. Yes, the plans to develop the Green were a sore point amongst many here, especially as there are still lots of other undeveloped areas in the vicinity.”

“We passed a large wild area on our way from the station”, I recalled.

“Yes”, he smiled. “The call that 'the Brickie', it being the site of a former brickworks. The hill you came up was Brickyard Hill, though now they've connected it through, it's part of Station Road. I have to admit, I was surprised when the developers tried to build on the Green.”

“Why?” Cas asked.

“They had been considering two other sites”, the vicar explained. “I could understand their rejecting the upper valley; it's a marsh down there. But quite why they also passed on Brickyard Hill – the west side, not the wild area – puzzled me. It's high ground, nearer the station and the town, has an even closer water supply, and there wouldn't have been half the fuss there was over the Green. And it was built on before, which always makes planners more receptive than they might otherwise be.”

“Who are the developers?” Cas asked.

“Collingworth and Barton-West”, he said. “Their main office is in Southampton High Street, some distance below the Bar Gate, but they have a smaller one in Bitterne, just up the road. They may be able to tell you more.”

+~+~+

It was only a short cab-ride to Bitterne (that suburb's railway station was, it turned out, over a mile from the place, so the vicar's advice spared us a long walk up a steep hill), and we easily found the small office of the developers. A harassed-looking young beta whose desk nameplate denoted him as 'Charles Barton-West' greeted us.

“My father put up the money, but it is the three Collingworth brothers who run the firm”, he explained. “How may I be of service, gentlemen?”

Cas explained that a case he was working on had brought him to the area, and that he needed to find out about recent new developments. I was not disposed to like such people, but young Mr. Barton-West was helpfulness personified.

“Mr. Phineas, the oldest brother, had the idea to develop the Green”, he explained. “His brothers, Sylvester and Isaac, they wanted to develop Brickyard Hill, which adjoins Mr. Phineas' property in the valley. But Mr. Phineas has a controlling interest, and I suppose he did not want to have people overlooking his own house. He has had more than enough troubles of late.”

“What sort of troubles?” Cas asked.

“Sorry”, Mr Barton-West said, blushing. “It was a family thing, and I only know what I was told. There was a step-brother, Mark, who we did not even know existed until recently.”

“How is that?” Cas asked.

“He came over from some country in Africa; I don't remember which”, our host said. “His name was Mark Falstone; Old Mr. Collingworth divorced and his ex-wife remarried a missionary, though I understand her former husband still held a candle for her, as they say. Mr. Falstone only stayed a few months before heading back out there, I suppose to carry on his work. I'm sorry, gentlemen; you do not wish to hear gossip.”

“Gossip can be a fruitful source of information”, Cas said with a smile. “Did this Mr. Falstone approach the brothers himself?”

“I believe he did”, Mr. Barton-West said. “He came to my offices here, but they were all out at the time, so I arranged for him to go and meet them at their house. I did not think he would wish to discuss whatever familial matters he was about in a common workplace. I only saw him that once.”

Cas smiled.

“Tell me”, he said, “now that the Green development had been stalled, will the one in Brickyard Hill go ahead?”

“Not immediately”, Mr. Barton-West said. “We have been offered the opportunity to purchase a large plot of land in the Portswood area of the city – where the branch-line from Southampton diverges, and barely a mile from the city centre – so we will be developing that as a priority.”

“I see”, Cas said. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“I do not suppose you could tell me why you are interested in all this?” Mr. Barton-West asked.

“Client confidentiality”, Cas smiled. “But I can tell you it is a fraud investigation, involving a development which should not have gone ahead.”

I refrained from looking surprised, though I felt it.

“Do you wish me to inform the Collingworths of your investigation?” our host inquired.

I fully expected Cas to say no, but to my surprise he did not.

“That would only be right and proper”, he said. “Please do so.”

III

We had returned to Sholing, and were sat on a bench on the Green.

“Dean”, Cas said quietly, “did you bring your gun with you?”

“Always, when travelling with you”, I said fervently. “Am I going to need it?”

“Possibly”, he said. “We are dealing with something rather more than the bullying of a group of men who perform quarterly dances. It may well be murder.”

“Murder?” I echoed. “Who?”

“Mr. Mark Falstone”, Cas said. “Consider the evidence. The bullying of the dancers starts at around the time that the three Collingworths discover that they have a step-brother. We know their father remained in love with his ex-wife, even after she remarried. Suppose that, in his will, there was a clause that promised a share of the business to any issue of that second union?”

“They killed him?” I gasped.

“When we stopped at the Post Office, I telegraphed a request to Balthazar”, he said. “I would be very interested to see if a Mr. Mark Falstone has indeed left the country. We shall adjourn to the Dolphin Hotel for the night, and see if he comes through for us.”

“What would they have done with the body?” I wondered.

“I would guess that it is buried somewhere on their property”, Cas said. “I am sure the obliging Mr. Barton-West will inform them of my interest in the case, which will of course necessitate the body's removal. Fortunately it will be unable to be moved tonight.”

“Why not?” I asked. He smiled, and tapped his foot on the ground.

“There was a sharp frost last night”, he reminded me, “and the temperature has not risen enough to thaw the ground today. Better still, temperatures are predicted to stay low until the weekend, three days hence. At least, according to the newspaper.”

“We could search their property after dark”, I suggested. He shook his head.

“There was a large sign when we passed warning of dogs in the yard”, he said. “But I have an idea about that.....”

+~+~+

Although my contribution towards Cas' solution of most cases was negligible (as in usually nil), this was to prove the one time when I did at least partly earn my keep. That evening we received not only a telegram from Balthazar Novak, but also a couriered copy of Mr. Mark Falstone' passport, and even a picture of him. That was the good news. The bad news was that he had left the country two weeks ago on board the 'SS Ionic', booked as far as Cape Town. 

“Damnation!” Cas snapped, throwing the telegram to the floor. “It all made sense, too!”

I looked through the passport, pausing at the picture of the departed (in the other sense) Mr. Falstone. He was a man in his forties, with blond hair and distinctive sideburns, and several day's growth of beard. I stared at it for some time before a curious idea appeared in my head.

“Cas”, I said slowly, “you need to telegraph your brother again.”

He looked at me curiously.

“Why?” he asked.

I waved the photograph at him.

“I know how they made a dead man walk!” I grinned. “When we were in the developer's officers, I saw they had photographs of the three brothers on display. The youngest – Isaac, I think – looks like his half-brother. He could easily have disguised himself as this man, had the passport stamped, then got off at the first port of call and come back on his own passport.”

Cas' eyes shone.

“That can be double-checked”, he said eagerly. “We can check if Mr. Isaac Collingworth's passport has been stamped recently, and if his half-brother was actually registered amongst the people alighting at Cape Town. Dean, you are brilliant!”

“Just lucky”, I said modestly. “I happened to look at the photographs in the office, that was all.”

We had each been sat on our own bed, facing each other. He reached across and took my hands in his.

“I could not do this job without you”, he said fervently. “Never forget that.”

I blushed. He did not let go of my hands, though.

+~+~+

My hunch was quickly proven to be at least partly correct. There was no Mark Falstone registered as arriving at Cape Town on the Ionic, even though he had been registered as a passenger on board. Finding if Mr. Isaac Collingworth had travelled abroad, however, was more difficult, as the Ionic had unluckily called in at Queenstown in Ireland, so he would not have needed his own passport. I was surprised when Cas suggested we ask Mr. Barton-West.

“Surely he will then go and tell the Collingworths?” I asked.

“I hope so”, Cas said, as our carriage laboured up the steep hill to Bitterne village. 

We drew to a stop in front of the developer's offices, and went in. Mr. Barton-West greeted us, but I immediately detected a slight strain in his attitude. Clearly his informing the Collingworths of our interest in their business had not gone well. Fortunately Cas managed to distract him with a set of seemingly aimless questions, and I nearly missed the one about the company having any foreign interests. He could not say if any of the brothers had been abroad of late, though none had travelled in a business capacity, as the company was too small to have overseas interests.

I had thought our journey unsuccessful, but Cas appeared to be in high spirits as we returned to our hotel. The rest of the day passed uneventfully, but after our evening meal, he suggested we turn in early, as we had a long night ahead of us. I shivered in anticipation, but did as I was told.

IV

I got four hours sleep before I began to have a most delicious dream, something about my drowning in a sea of Cas. I smiled and shifted in my sleep, only to wake and realize that I had six foot one of horny alpha on my back, and that Cas was beginning to finger me open.

“That's way better than any alarm clock!” I muttered, smiling as I felt his erection brush against my backside. The room was long cold, but I was gloriously warm, if shuddering at the anticipation of what was to come. Me, hopefully.

Cas continued to work me open, far too long in my humble opinion, then positioned himself above me. The man's self-control was epic; had our roles been reversed I would have been unable to stop myself plunging straight in, but he eased in slowly, taking his time and uttering his own happy little sighs to match mine. This was no rush to orgasm; once fully sheathed he writhed slowly and pleasurably on top of me, teasingly brushing my prostate and whispering sweet nothings in my ear that made me blush like the alpha I never was around him. 

He sighed again.

“Time to get up”, he said, and started to pull out. I clenched around him in surprise.

“You're not going to finish me off?” I asked, decidedly put out. “I can't go out like this!”

He smiled into my neck, and arched backwards. I thought he was going to finish pulling out, but suddenly he thrust back in again and changed his angle, going straight for my prostate. Worse, the bastard grabbed my cock at its base, preventing me from coming, whilst he spilled his load inside of me. Then somehow he managed to flip us both right over whilst still holding my cock, now pointing almost obscenely vertical, in a death-grip.

“Come!” he whispered, and let me go.

I let out an agonized wail as I erupted, my come flying everywhere as he jerked my cock around like some sort of hose. I was a puppet in his hands, but in the name of all that was holy, I loved it. Once I was done, he turned us onto our sides and pulled out of me with a dirty chuckle, then got up, leaving me on the bed covered in my own come.

“I wanted to make sure you were fully awake for our adventure tonight”, he grinned. “Seems like you are, now.”

I glared at him, and resolved that he would pay for this. Once I regained the use of my limbs, that was.

+~+~+

Driving with Cas across the Northam Bridge at night was a surreal experience, the pitch-black waters of the River Itchen eerily still beneath the piers of the iron bridge. We were clearly headed back to Sholing, as he turned right at the first opportunity rather than continue to Bitterne, and I was not surprised when we eventually came within sight of the bungalow-cum-builders'-yard that I now knew was the residence of Mr. Phineas Collingworth. I placed my hand on my revolver inside my pocket, and hoped that I would not have cause to use it. 

Someone was waiting for us as we pulled up in a side-road just short of Station Road, a nondescript little man I first thought, until we drew near. Then....

Ye Gods, what was that smell?

“Doctor, meet Mr. Albert Moray”, Cas said quietly. “I had cause to use his services during the Baskerville case, if you remember. I thought his presence here might be advisable.”

My eyes were watering, but I managed a smile as I fought the urge not to back away. This was beyond a smell; the man could probably set alarms off with what was emanating from his skin, and as a sigma I felt it even more intensely. Mr. Moray smiled ruefully.

“Perils of the job, doc”, he said, seemingly unperturbed by my barely-concealed reaction. “But you'll need me before the night is out.”

“Indeed we will”, Cas smiled. The bastard seemed totally unaffected by That Awful Stench, and I silently hated him for it. 

Cas walked confidently up to the iron gates, with Mr. Moray close behind. I held back for..... obvious reasons. Cas began to pick the lock, and three huge black dogs ambled towards him from inside the yard. I tensed, but they seemed far more interested in Mr. Moray, and once Cas had opened the gate the small man slipped inside, and was soon petting and cuddling the beasts. I do not know what breed they were, but there was some horse in there somewhere, I was sure. Yet they took no notice of us, focussing all their attention on Mr. Moray, greeting him like a long-lost friend.

“Come”, Cas whispered. I followed dutifully.

There was a large and ugly green building in the centre of the yard, which from the various sign-posts along the doors was rented out to other businesses. A few smaller sheds were scattered around, but Cas seemed disinterested in them. Instead he led me to an iron gate in a wall running beside the house, and took care to grease the hinges before gently easing it open. I looked around, and winced.

“Ugh!” I whispered.

“What is it?” he asked. He had gone down the two steps placed thoughtfully just beyond the gate, and I was surveying the garden from my vantage point. I gestured over to the right.

“A pet graveyard”, I whispered. “I hate those!”

I did not think my discovery particularly interesting, but he immediately headed over to where I had pointed, and I followed, reading the headstones.

“Finch – Marcus – Fido – Benson – and one they didn't think worth naming”, I observed.

He looked at me gravely.

“You might want to step back”, he advised softly.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because there is every likelihood that you are standing on the mortal remains of Mr. Mark Falstone!”

I barely suppressed my gasp of horror.

“They couldn't have!” I hissed. “Their own back yard?”

“Where better?” Cas asked. “Note how the area around it is much larger than the other ones, and that the grass is unusually green here, yet normal elsewhere in the garden. Let us go and retrieve Mr. Moray, and see if the local police force would be interested in finding a dead body on their patch.”

We walked back to Mr. Moray, who was clearly reluctant to leave his new pets, but we eventually prised him away from them, and returned to our carriage. Mercifully for my senses, Mr. Moray had walked from the station, and planned to catch the milk train back to London in a few hours' time. I was never so grateful, although I felt sorry for the milk, which would probably be cream by the end of its journey!

+~+~+

The local constabulary were indeed more than a little interested in the case Cas laid before them, and quickly obtained a warrant to dig up the pet graveyard in Station Road. Sure enough, they found the decaying body of a man who was identified as Mr. Mark Falstone, and an examination showed that he had been shot twice in the heart, and presumably died either from that or internal bleeding. Questioned, the three Collingworth brothers admitted that they had covered up the crime, but claimed that they found the man dead in their house when they returned from work one day, and panicked. Mr. Isaac Collingworth had indeed effected the passport ruse I had suspected, and all three were placed under arrest. Mr. Phineas Collingworth also admitted applying pressure to members of the local morris group, as his company was in some financial problems and the failure to build on the Green had been a matter of great importance to him. It seemed ironic that such a small thing had brought about his downfall, I thought wryly.

I did a thorough examination of the body, and Cas seemed oddly excited by my findings, though he said nothing. I expected him to want to return to London, but the following morning he said we had one more call to make first, and that I should bring my gun, ready to use. Puzzled, I obeyed.

Our call turned out to be to the offices of Collingworth and Barton-West, where young Mr. Barton-West received us. He was dressed in black, and very sombre.

“A sad case indeed” he said with a sigh. “I take it you gentlemen are returning to London?”

“We have one more thing to do first”, Cas said. “This has been a quite remarkable case, starting with a group of morris dancers and ending with one of the most devious and manipulative murderers it has ever been my pleasure to take down.”

“Do you know which of them killed Mr. Falstone?” the developer asked.

V

“His killer”, Cas mused. “Yes, I do know who it was. The police should be here shortly.”

“The police?” he queried.

“To arrest you, Mr. Barton-West. And you should know that my friend the doctor has a revolver in his pocket and, fond though he is of that jacket, he is quite prepared to do as he has done before and shoot through it, should you attempt to do anything foolish.”

Our host laughed. I stared in shock, my finger tightening automatically on the trigger. This was not what I had expected.

“Your execution of the crime was almost perfect”, Cas said dryly. “However, it was the 'almost' that caught you out in the end. You had sufficient motive; the portion of the business that would come to you when your father died would have been somewhat diminished once Mr. Falstone had established his claim. However, you soon ascertained that he was the only one with the documents to prove his claim, and that no-one knew he was here. Once he had said that, he was doomed.”

“Really, Mr. Novak!” But the laugh was definitely forced.

“You arranged a meeting at the house of Mr. Phineas Collingworth, as he and his brothers had what appeared a greater motive for the man's removal”, Cas went on. “You made sure to time the meeting when you knew all three brothers would be busy. You got close to him, shot him dead with a gun you had earlier extracted from the cabinet, wiped the handle and placed the gun in his left hand. But that, sir, was where you made your one and only mistake.”

“Really?” Mr. Barton-West sneered. “And what was what, pray? Something to convince a British jury, I hope.”

“British juries tend to like medical evidence”, Cas said. “And in his examination of the late Mr. Falstone, the doctor found something that screams your guilt.”

“I don't remember that”, I said.

Cas turned to me, and in his distraction I saw Mr. Barton-West moving to try to surreptitiously open a desk drawer. I did not hesitate, but shot him in his right arm, causing him to scream in anguish. Cas was round the desk in a trice, taking out the pistol from the drawer whilst I (reluctantly) bandaged up the developer whilst assuring the worried secretary that her boss would live (for now) and that she should send the police in directly they arrived. Which fortunately they did just ten minutes later, taking the guilty man with them.

+~+~+

“Medical evidence?” I prompted. 

We were back at the hotel, since the police wanted to take our statements the next day. Cas smiled at me.

“You noted the angle of the bullet that killed Mr. Falstone”, Cas said. “If you remember back to the office photograph, all three Collingworths are tall men, whilst Mr. Barton-West is somewhat short. Yet the bullet's passage definitely indicated that it had been shot from a relatively low angle, which meant either that the killer was kneeling down – which made no sense at all – or he was shorter than his victim. That and the fact that the Collingworths would have to have been exceptionally stupid to use one of their own guns if they really had wanted to kill their step-brother.”

“So it was him all along”, I said. “The rat!”

“He was playing for high stakes”, Cas said. “A conviction against the Collingworths would have enabled him to greatly increase his share of the business, if not take it over completely. Had one of his business partners not tried to interfere in one of our quaint old English customs, he would have got away with it.”

+~+~+

Cas and I both gave our statements to the police the next day, then returned to the peace and quiet of Baker Street, having solved the case of the Dancing Men. An examination of an old rag in the back of Mr. Barton-West's desk proved it to have been used to wipe down a recently-fired gun, and although he narrowly escaped the gallows, he would spend the rest of his natural life behind bars. Sadly Mr. Irons' morris group did disband some years later when one of the members passed on, but the morris itself has begun to revive, and new groups are being formed in England to this day.

+~+~+

Our next adventure is one of those I have had a number of requests to make public – that of the vanishing Mr. James Phillimore and his umbrella....


	3. Case 93: Shadow (1899)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third-most requested of my unpublished cases, that of 'Mr. James Phillimore, who stepped back into his house to retrieve his umbrella, and duly vanished'.

I

“Here?” Cas asked.

I swallowed hard. He was wearing those damn glasses again, and he knew full well what they did to me. How was I expected to concentrate on keeping notes when I had sex personified right in front of me?

“Here”, I managed. His knowing smirk only served to make my trousers even tighter. And the fact that, just before our recent summons, the bastard had insisted on a bout of sex with those glasses on, and then inserted the vibrator and told me I would be wearing it all day! Life was unfair!

We were standing in a hallway typical of thousands such like across Great Britain. The weak winter sun filtered through the cheap stained glass on the door, painting the parquetry floor in a rainbow of colours. I tried to remind myself that the red did not look like blood, and might be a fair reflection of what had possibly happened here barely two hours ago. I leaned against a wall, which was a mistake as the angle only served to push the vibrator against my prostate, making me have to hide my whimper in a cough. And Cas smirk only added to my discomfiture.

Cas and I had been sat at breakfast when an urgent summons had arrived from the man currently standing on the bottom step of the nearby flight of stairs, namely Mr. Robert Phillimore. His brother James had vanished in somewhat mysterious circumstances, and whilst he had of course called the police, he had also sent a cab across London requesting our immediate attendance. My friend had been known to turn down such peremptory demands, but fortunately he had finished his first cup of coffee and was (more or less) in the land of the living, so we decamped to our present location, namely the hallway of number one hundred and four, Prometheus Lane, Isleworth. 

I eased carefully upright and looked around us. A door to one side led into a small lounge, whilst further ones along the corridor led to a toilet, a cupboard and the kitchen respectively. The corridor itself was narrow, half the space being taken up with the staircase that ascended to the first floor (the cupboard under the stairs was locked, and I was not inclined to go poking around in the dark without a torch and my mate by my side). Our client, presumably expecting Cas to run around and magically produce clues from nowhere, was getting impatient.

“Five minutes, sirs”, he said. “I knocked for him at seven forty precisely, but of course he was not ready, so I went to wait in the cab. Three minutes and an impatient driver later, I went up the path again and called through the door, and he called back that he just had to get his umbrella, as it was starting to drizzle. I caught a glimpse of his shadow, as he still had the hall light on, so went back to the cab. When I heard the town clock chime the three-quarter-hour, I decided I had waited long enough, so I came to the door.”

“Why had he left the door open?” Cas asked.

“My brother James was never tidy in his whole life!” the man snorted balefully. “He had to partly close the door to reach the coat-stand fully – the hallway is not large, as you can see – so he should have been seconds. I thought he might be speaking to someone in the house, though he lives alone, but when I went in after him – he was gone!”

“Who else would have been in the house that you know of?” Cas asked.

“That is the mystery”, Mr. Phillimore said. “No-one at all. He is single, and is too engrossed in his work to even consider the possibility of dating.”

“Sir, your brother vanished from your sight for what should have been approximately five seconds”, Cas said pointedly. “Assuming that we discount the possibility that Mr. Herbert George Wells was right, and that Martians are real, then some earthly agency is implied. You described your brother as a fit man, yet someone was able not only to remove him from the property, but to also do so in under five minutes, with no resistance, and without leaving a single trace. People do not just disappear without reason.”

I saw it. There was the briefest of hesitations before our client nodded. Cas pounced.

“Was your brother in any danger?” he demanded brusquely.

“Not as far as I knew”, Mr. Phillimore said, scratching his head. “But I called round last week, and he had just received a telegram that had upset him. I asked him what it was, but he threw it into the fire rather than show me.”

“So you have no idea what the contents of that telegram may have been?” Cas pressed.

“I did receive a request for support for an Irish welfare group about the same time”, the man admitted. “I looked them up, and found they were a front for separatists. Our family was Irish two generations back, you see, so someone was doing their research. I wrote back and refused, and I heard nothing more. I thought from James' reaction that this might have been their approaching him, but I cannot be sure of that.”

“Was your letter threatening?” Cas asked.

“It was very cleverly worded”, the man said. “The words could be read as just a request, but there was definitely an implied threat underneath them. I regret throwing mine away, now. I heard nothing more, so I assumed they had just given up. You do not think.... they have James?”

“It s a possibility”, Cas said. “Let us examine all the possibilities, however. Who else could have been in the house, to your knowledge?”

“”No-one should have been there at that time of the morning”, our client insisted. “His neighbour Miss Rosewood sometimes calls round, but never before mid-day; she would terrify even your hypothetical Martian before she has had at least two cups of coffee of a morning!”

I risked a smile at Cas, only to see him staring warningly at me. I blushed, and he grinned slightly before turning back to Mr. Phillimore. I knew that I would pay for that smile later. Hopefully.

“Is there anyone else?” he asked. 

“They have a cleaner, a Mrs. Adlestrop from over Sidings Lane, but again, she does not come round till at least eleven”, our client said. “I think James once said she does someone in Grove Street before she comes to him.”

“Curious”, Cas said. “What do you and your brother do in the city, pray?”

The man's face darkened. 

“I work as a trader in the City”, he said stiffly, “and have sufficient investments of my own to be able to do only three days a week there. James is a curator at the British Museum. I assume that you gentlemen have read of 'Hadrian's Haul'?”

I smiled at the name, given by the press to the discovery last year of a leather pouch found buried at a fort along Hadrian's Wall, the great Roman fortification which cut through my home county of Northumberland. The contents had initially seemed only mildly interesting – a few coins and some pins – but upon close examination it had emerged that someone had sewn a secret message onto the inside of the pouch, warning the recipient Brutus, an officer based on the Wall, of treachery within the Roman ranks that would shortly lead to an attack by the Picts beyond the border. The coins had dated it to shortly before just such an attack.

“James was suspended over the theft of that little bauble”, our client said angrily, “and it lasted nearly a month until one of the security guards shot himself, leaving a signed confession. They even tried to avoid giving him back-pay until I threatened to bring in a lawyer!”

“Quite right too!” I agreed, though I privately wondered if Mr. James Phillimore's subsequent disappearance threw a new light on that affair. 

“Have you ever visited your brother at work?” Cas asked. Our client's eyes narrowed.

“What are you implying?” he demanded.

II

“I will be blunt”, Cas said. “You have already told us that you are nearly identical in appearance, despite your being a year older. It seems that someone would have a far greater motive to move against you than your brother. As your detective, I must consider all possibilities, especially those that endanger your good self.”

The man looked alarmed.

“I did visit him at work only this Saturday, two days past”, he admitted. “You don't think.... those damned Irish are targeting me after all?”

“I would like access to your house”, Cas said carefully. “As a professional, I may be able to see if anyone has been inside it. I would rather be safe than sorry.”

“Good heavens, yes!” he said fervently. “You don't think that they will try anything?”

“I think you should go about your business in the city today”, Cas said. “There is usually more safety in a crowd. Tell me, sir, working at the British Museum would not normally merit such a house as this? Does your brother have a similar financial background to your good self?”

He smiled.

“James and I arrived from Canada about three months ago”, he explained. “Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, to be exact. We made our fortune in logging in that great country, and I manage our investments, as he has never had a head for figures. In truth I could probably just about get by with not working, but I quite like my job, or parts of it at least. And James loves his.”

“And you always take the train in to work together?” Cas asked.

“This was the first day we ever did”, our client said ruefully. “He only went into the Museum two days a week, usually Tuesdays and Fridays. My usual work days are Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. But the Museum is starting a major new exhibition on Egyptians next month, so it was all hands on deck. I had not seen him for a couple of weeks, so we arranged to travel in together and catch up on each other's lives.”

Cas nodded. Mr. Phillimore seemed nervous, tapping his fingers on the stair-post. 

“Please leave instructions on one of your cards, so I may be admitted to your house in your absence”, Cas said at last. “The doctor and I will spend another hour here at least, as there is still much to learn. I promise that I will report to you in person as soon as there is something worth reporting.”

Our client looked dubious at that, but wrote something on a card and handed it to me before hurrying from the house. Cas waited until he had gone before speaking.

“Dean”, he said slowly, “I want you to look around this house, and tell me what your impression of Mr. James Phillimore is. I would value an unbiased opinion, and I know you will deliver one.”

“But are you not going to look for clues first?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I have an inkling as to which direction this case may be heading”, he said. “I have seen all I wish to see here.”

I looked around the hallway. There seemed nothing the least out of the ordinary about it.

“This is one of those cases when I do not see what our client hopes for you to do”, I said gruffly. “It is not as if you can make Mr. James Phillimore suddenly reappear out of thin air!”

“Who knows?” Cas grinned. “I just might!”

I stared at him, confused.

“Oh, one thing he told me when you were outside, dealing with that child that fell on the pavement”, he said. “Mr. Robert Phillimore is the beneficiary of a rather impressive life insurance policy that the brothers hold on each other, so naturally the insurance company will be reluctant to pay out until it can be established exactly what happened to his brother. And, of course, that he himself played no part in it.”

“You think he may have killed his brother?” I asked, surprised.

He pulled out a book from his pocket and sat on the stairs. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

“I am sure he could not have done”, he said.

What?

III

After my examination of the house of the vanished man, I came back down the stairs to find Cas waiting for me. To my surprise, he did not immediately demand the results of my examinations, but insisted on an immediate drive to Mr. Robert Phillimore's house just across the Thames in Richmond, Surrey, where he asked me to do exactly the same. The cleaner, a Mrs. Martin, looked at me in some surprise as my eyes were watering by this time - the carriage ride between the two houses had been sheer torture! - but fortunately (for once) there was a cat in the house, and I blamed my reactions on it. Possibly the first time a feline has ever been of any real use to me!

By the time we reached Richmond Station, I was a wreck. I expected Cas to take a train to Waterloo and thence a cab to Baker Street, but he surprised me by instead buying tickets for the North London Railway to Willesden Junction, where I knew we could take the underground line back to Baker Street.

“Tell me about your impressions of the two brothers”, Cas said once the train had started.

I gathered my thoughts (along with my remaining wits), gave silent thanks to God for the invention of the padded seat, and flicked open my notebook. 

“Mr. James Phillimore appears to have been quite careful with his money”, I began. “There were several things around that were patched up, including a blanket that was barely serviceable. He had a lot of second-hand books, including of course a lot of history ones. Ancient Greece seemed to be a particular interest. Oh, and he did not apparently like wearing suits.”

“Why do you say that?” Cas asked, tilting his head.

“His work clothes apart, he only had one formal suit, and that was a second-hand one from his brother”, I said. “It still had his name in it. He definitely did not like gardening; I took one look outside the back door, and that was enough! He did not seem to like cooking much; there was precious little food in the kitchen, but several leaflets for local restaurants. All in all, there was only one slightly odd thing.”

“What is that?” Cas asked. 

“He had an underground railway ticket for his journey to work last week”, I said. “I know underground tickets don't get stamped, but they always get surrendered at the end of the journey. I do not see how or why he kept it; it's not as if he would want or need to make the same journey twice.”

“Well observed”, Cas said with a smile. “Now, Mr. Robert Phillimore.”

“The man is a tidiness freak!” I muttered. “Either that, or he deducts a farthing from his cleaner's wage-packet for each grain of dust he finds. But he does share his brother's care when dealing with money. He also has a disturbingly large collection of romantic novels!”

Cas smiled.

“Apart from the financial aspect and the number of books, they have little in common”, I said. “Our client's garden is infinitely superior, but he hires a professional gardener to do it for him, I was told. I spoke to one of his neighbours over the back fence, a Mrs. Parsley. She said he keeps himself to himself and is often out, but a decent enough person when home. Very quiet, too.”

“Interesting”, my friend said. “Yes, it all adds up.” He looked at his watch. “We are slowing for Kew Gardens, which means that we shall be in Willesden in approximately ten minutes. Drop your trousers, Dean.”

My eyes watered even more at the prospect of release, and I was out of my lower garments in record time. Cas put his glasses on, and whipped out his already erect cock, before fingering around my entrance. Far from removing the vibrator however he seemed to be working it even further into me. I groaned, thankful for a non-corridor train and praying that any passengers here or any of the other stops had the sense to know what lowered blinds in a first-class compartment during the daytime meant. If they did not, then they would soon learn!

Cas continued to work me ever wider, and the finally began to withdraw the vibrator. I did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed – but he stopped with only the head of the thing at my entrance, which was now probably wide enough to take Lord alone knows what. It was only when I felt the familiar feel of his cock-head joining the cold smoothness of the vibrator that I realized what he was up to, and whined.

“We don't have to do this if you don't want to, Dean”, he whispered to me whilst tickling my ear with his clever tongue. “You know I love you too much to ever hurt you. At least, not unless you want me to?”

I managed a weak glare, and gestured for him to get in with it. His cock was more than a match for the vibrator, and bearing in mind the shortness of our journey I was grateful when he went straight for my prostate. I was less grateful when the train jerked to a start again and he hit it full on, causing me to come violently. God, I was a mess, but I did not care. 

He seemed to pick up speed with the train, humping me faster as the train picked up speed, then slowing again as it braked for the next stop – Gunnersbury, if I remembered correctly. Not that I was in much of a state to do anything, especially as he had not yet come. And he showed that impossible stamina of his by repeating the process for both South Acton and Acton Stations, before finally climaxing as we left the latter, erupting inside of me with a snarl. I almost felt deprived when he withdrew both himself and the vibrator, but I knew we would need time to make ourselves presentable before we rolled into busy Willesden Juncton.

+~+~+

To my surprise, when we reached the junction we changed not to the line to Baker Street, but the branch down through Primrose Hill to Euston. I did not bother to ask why, as I was busy trying to sit down without wincing, and glaring at the blue-eyed genius across from me. We reached the terminus without further molestation, but on leaving the coach Cas whispered to me:

“Tonight, it's my turn.”

And thanks to those four words, I had to carry my doctor's bag in front of me through one of the capital's busiest stations!

Cas' reason for his trip emerged when he visited the stationmaster's office, and asked politely if he could talk with the staff who had been selling tickets that morning. One had since gone home, but he was able to talk with six of them, and came away with the sort of look a cat has when it has just got the cream. Or a famous detective has when he has just reduced his chief scribe to a quivering wreck.

“We will divert to the local police station, and see if we can obtain the services of our friend Sergeant Baldur”, he said with a smile. “This has been a most interesting case, and with luck we may have it all wrapped up tonight.”

“You may”, I pouted. “I am all at sea.”

“It is your observations that have helped confirm my theory”, he said, far too reasonably. “And you have seen all that I have seen.”

“That's the trouble”, I said crossly. “I have, and I am still all at sea!”

+~+~+

We were fortunate to find Sergeant Baldur in the middle of completing paperwork (did policemen at his level ever finish their form-filling, I wondered?), and he was of course only too delighted to accompany us. We arrived back at Baker Street, and Cas seemed surprised that there was no-one there waiting for us.

“He is late”, he said, in a put-upon tone. “Highly unreasonable of him.”

“Who is late?” I asked.

“The man behind the disappearance of Mr. James Phillimore”, he said, as if it were obvious. “We shall send down to Mrs. Singer for some tea and cakes whilst we wait. Come!”

We followed him up, and were soon joined by a tray of welcome hot drinks and refreshments. It seemed that Cas' guest had disobliged him, but I should have known better. I had just finished my first cup when there was the sound of heavy feet on the stairs, and moments later the door burst open to admit....

IV

Mr. Robert Phillimore?

“Gentlemen”, he panted, waving a piece of paper frantically at us. “I got home.... this was there..... James is in Ireland!”

I accepted the paper, which turned out to be an unsigned telegram. It stated that Mr. James Phillimore had been kidnapped and was being taken to Ireland. His captors demanded a large sum of money from his brother for his safe return, and he only had forty-eight hours to respond, or they would kill their captive. Any attempt to communicate with the police would result in the captive's immediate execution. Further instructions were to follow.

“Why was there no sign of a scuffle?” was my first thought.

“Maybe they used chloroform”, the sergeant suggested. 

“There was a path along the back”, I remembered. “I could see it from the house, and only a latched gate in between. A pity I did not go through that nightmare of a back garden and check it.”

“Could you raise this money?” Cas asked, looking surprisingly calm.

“I will!” Mr. Phillimore said firmly. “James' life is at stake!”

“I hardly think so.”

We all looked at him in surprise. He smiled lazily, stood up and walked round to close the door behind Mr. Phillimore.

What he did next, however, caught me totally unaware. Before our visitor could turn to face him, Cas handcuffed him!

“The game is up”, Cas said softly. “Mr. Robert Phillimore. Or whatever your real name is.”

Our visitor's face contorted with rage, and he struggled angrily against his bonds, but Sergeant Baldur slipped round and added his own set. With that he seemed resigned to his fate, and slumped against the wall.

“You bastard!” he snarled at Cas. “How did you guess?”

Cas looked affronted.

“I did not 'guess'”, he said loftily. “I all but knew, and fortunately your actions after the crime gave you away.”

“He killed his own brother?” I asked.

“He has no brother”, Cas said. “Mr. James Phillimore never existed, and his sole purpose was to defraud the Metropolis Insurance Company of a large sum of money, so that this man can continue in the lifestyle he thinks he deserves!”

+~+~+

“This man arrives from Canada, or wherever he is really from”, Cas said. He is playing for high stakes, so he is prepared to invest some of his future ill-gotten gains. A little manipulation, and it is made to appear that two brothers have come to the United Kingdom. He settles in semi-rural Middlesex, and establishes two identities. Robert, the one who can handle figures and manages the family finances, and James, the dreamer who works part-time for the British Museum. Which is where the whole ramp nearly unravels.”

“Like most criminals, passing up the chance of additional wealth proves irresistible. A rare artifact is on show at the Museum, and he succumbs to temptation, thinking he can sell it for, as the Americans say, 'a fast buck'. The real Mr. James Phillimore, had he ever existed, would have predicted the hue and cry that would arise over the theft of such a unique item. Our man here panics, and manages to frame an innocent co-worker at the Museum, placing the item in his house before shooting him and making it appear as suicide. All goes well for him, and in the subsequent confrontation with the Museum over pay he gains the bonus of reinforcing the idea that 'Robert' and 'James' are two different people.”

He turned to me.

“Whilst you were investigating the two houses”, he said, “I talked with as many local people I could find. It boosted my theory in that not one of them could remember ever having seen the brothers together, though the neighbours had heard them talking to each other inside the houses. A one-man conversation, of course.”

Our prisoner scowled.

“Sustaining this illusion is dangerous the longer it goes on, so he is quick to bring things to a conclusion”, Cas said. “One morning 'Robert' calls for his brother, something he has never done before. He times things so that, shortly before the town hall clock strikes the three-quarter-hour, he is there outside the house, and some innocent passers-by are there to witness his impatience. They see him storm up the garden path, push open the door, and find his brother 'gone'. He is fortunate that the people succumb to the human sin of curiosity, and wait to watch what happens, so he is able to come out soon after and urge them to fetch the police.”

“He called you in, though”, I pointed out. Cas smiled.

“Indeed”, he said. “What further steps could the poor brother do to establish that facts than call in London's premier consulting detective? Should I fail to find the man who never was, his innocence is clear. Yet the clues were there, if one looked for them.”

“What clues?” I demanded. 

“First, the area around the doorway”, Cas said. “It was clean.”

V

The sergeant and I both stared at him in confusion.

“So what?” the sergeant asked.

Cas chuckled.

“Gentlemen, that area in most houses is subject to particular wear and tear”, he said. “A quick examination of the rest of the house showed it had been cleaned to the standard one might expect of a cleaning lady, yet the hallway was spotless. Someone had taken the trouble to clean away any trace of anything. And whilst the menus suggested a preference for dining out, the kitchen had barely been used, yet the man had been there for a month, allegedly.”

“What else?” I asked.

“The sole suit was unusual, especially as someone with the wealth of Mr. James Phillimore would not usually have skimped on a suit, let alone borrowed one from his brother”, Cas said. “The underground ticket was purchased by our prisoner to establish his brother's character, inadvertently forgetting that they are normally handed over. And perhaps most damning of all, there was the staircase.”

“What about the staircase?” I asked. “It looked perfectly normal.”

“I challenged our prisoner as to whether or not his 'brother' wore a ring”, Cas said. “I predicted, correctly as it turned out, that as he himself wore one, his fake brother would not. But my examination of the stair-post at the bottom of the stairs showed that someone had repeatedly come down the stairs and used it to pull themselves round to go to the kitchen, and that that someone had worn a ring, which had begun to remove the paint from the post. I dare say that a close examination of the man's ring would show marks that correspond perfectly.”

Sergeant Baldur went over to the man and, with my help, removed the ring from his unwilling hand. He looked closely at it, and nodded to Cas.

“You will remember that the man left us around mid-morning”, Cas went on. “He did not go to the city. Instead, he went to Euston station to catch a train.”

“How do you know that?” our prisoner grunted. “You psychic or something?”

Cas waved the telegram at him. 

“This is sent from the telegraph office of the London and North Western Railway at their Lime Street station in Liverpool”, he said.

“That was why you went to Euston!” I exclaimed, He nodded.

“One of the ticket-vendors recognized the description I gave of you”, he told our prisoner, whose scowl only deepened. “And I am certain that when we wire to Liverpool, someone at the telegraph office there will do so as well. You just had time to catch a train there, send a message ostensibly from your brother's captors, then return to London to 'receive the dreadful news'.”

“It's only fraud!” our prisoner objected. “No-one got killed!”

“You are forgetting Mr. Andrew Meadows, the co-worker you murdered to cover your museum theft”, Cas said. “I feel sure that we can search your house and find enough evidence to convict you of that. And that sir, is a hanging offence!”

+~+~+

He was right. Although 'Mr. Robert Phillimore' – we never found out his real name – continued to deny everything, drafts of the suicide note he had written out for Mr. Meadows were found in his writing-desk, and that proved sufficient to convince an English jury. Whoever he was, he was dispatched from the world, and it was a better place without him. Cas was offered a large reward from the Metropolis Insurance Company, but insisted on making it over to the widow and family of Mr. Meadows. Typical of the man!

Oh, and the night after my train trip was indeed memorable. And Cas even wore the glasses for me! It was definitely worth not being able to walk properly the following day.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would take us back down to Cornwall, where a clash of cultures would prove deadly.....


	4. Case 94: The Rapture (1899)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as ‘the case of Isadora Persano, who was found stark staring mad with a match box in front of him which contained a remarkable worm said to be unknown to science'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: mention of past rape

I  
   
Our train, the second one of the day, clanked to a halt with a mournful, almost human sigh at Platform One of Bere Ferrers (recently renamed from Beer Ferris, according to the local guidebook, as the railway company had felt the original name was too alcoholic!). We had taken the Great Western Railway all the way down to Plymouth, and then the London and South Western back up to here, along the same line that those two Coptic Patriarchs who were not Coptic Patriarchs had taken not so long ago. Now we faced a carriage ride of a few miles to Hotspur’s Farm, on the outskirts of the village of Harrowbarrow.  
   
Though it was a pleasant summer’s day and I was happy to be away from the heat of the city, I cannot deny that I always felt a hint of nervousness when venturing into country areas, given Cas' and my relationship. Victorians as a whole were a lot more tolerant than those of subsequent generations made them out to be, but I knew that those in country areas would, in all probability, be more likely to express disapproval or outright hostility to what Cas and I had, or for that matter to anything out of the ordinary. Alpha attitudes in the country tended to be rather different.  
   
Just how different, I was about to find out.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We had come west at the request of the ubiquitous Mr. Balthazar Novak (in letter thankfully, rather than in person) to investigate the strange case of the famous duellist, Isadora Persano. The young man (he was just turned twenty-five) had been committed to a local asylum, much to the shock of the many who knew him. And since said man was greatly admired by the young King of Spain, Alfonso XIII, and had been inconsiderate enough to go mad on English soil, it was deemed imperative that the circumstances of his sudden illness were clarified as soon as possible. Especially as Spain, having recently suffered a thorough humiliation at the hands of the United States in a short war that had stripped it of several of its remaining colonies, might be open to an entente or at least persuasion as to the merits of benevolent neutrality in the forthcoming European war, which looked ever more likely with each passing day.  
   
Our hosts were, I was surprised to discover, an alpha and omega couple called Alfred and Clesek Trevelyan, which I thought appropriate bearing in mind this area, between the Tamar and Lynher valleys, had changed ownership between England and Cornwall more than once. What surprised me about out hosts was their statures; the alpha was definitely the shorter and less physically imposing of the two, and it did not take long to see who wore the trousers in their relationship.  
   
If a certain blue-eyed person in the vicinity gave me so much as a knowing look, he was not getting laid any time soon! Ish.  
   
Also in the house was Clesek’s unmarried omega brother, Jory Poldark, who did not share his brother’s immense physicality, being almost wraith-like. I later learnt, much to my surprise, that he and Clesek were twins, some twenty-two years of age, whilst Alfred Trevelyan was twenty-nine. The latter’s parents were, it seemed, moderately wealthy, enough to own several farms and place their second son in charge of running this one.  
   
“This is a sad case”, Alfred Trevelyan said, once we had had a bounteous dinner (and it had been totally uncalled for of a certain blue-eyed genius to snigger when I undid a button on my waistcoat). “But it had been coming for some time. At least Mr. Persano survived.”  
   
That had been the other matter in this case, namely the death of a local landowner, one Mr. Simon Taylor. He had been the owner of Hingston Hall, the largest house in the district. Perhaps typically, the London press had almost overlooked his death in favour of covering the exotic foreigner’s attack of madness. Such were the vagaries of a modern media.  
   
“I wonder if I might be allowed to visit him in Larnsen”, Jory Trevelyan muttered. I looked at him in surprise.  
   
“Where is that?” I asked.  
   
“It’s spelled Launceston, but pronounced ‘Larnsen’ down here”, his brother explained. “A town not far to the north. Doctor Frinton – he was there when it all happened – I understand that he has some concerns about the running of the asylum over in Plymouth, so chose to take the man there. He went voluntarily, or at least as voluntary as someone in his state could be.”

“We must see this doctor and get his version of events as well”, Cas said. “Everyone sees things from a different angle, so he may have something to add. Pray tell us how it all began.”

Was it my imagination, or did our three hosts glance quickly at each other before Alfred Trevelyan spoke?  
   
“Isadora – Mr. Persano – is not the sort of person you can easily ignore”, he said carefully. “He tended to either be liked or hated; yes, I do not think hatred is too strong for some people’s reaction. I know many will think that it was just because he is a foreigner, but there was more too it, although…”  
   
His mate reached a comforting hand across the table to him,  
   
“I think you should tell our friends everything, Alfie”, he said quietly.  
   
The alpha nodded, took a deep breath and ploughed on.  
   
“What they say about omegas in the country being rare is quite true”, he said, eyeing his brother-in-law almost apologetically. “When I married Cles, I was the envy of many an alpha in the neighbourhood, and lots of them approached me hoping that I might persuade Jory here to accept their advances. As if!”  
   
His mate smiled down at him.  
   
“One of the most persistent suitors was the late Mr. Taylor”, Alfred Trevelyan continued. “He really was a most unpleasant man, though I suppose I should not speak ill of the dead. He owned a road which I had to use to access some buildings that are isolated from the rest of the farm, and used that as an excuse to keep coming round here.”  
   
“I did not like him”, Jory Poldark said firmly, “and I did nothing to encourage his suit. Unfortunately, he would not take no for an answer.”

Again, I had the strange impression that there was something left unsaid in that statement.  
   
“And then Mr. Persano happened on the scene”, his brother-in-law continued. “He has made his reputation for fighting battles for the oddest of reasons, and for some reason he took it into his head to come to Jory’s defence…..”  
   
“One moment”, Cas said. “There is something missing from your account. Why did a famous duellist, who is friends with the King of Spain, end up staying somewhere as quiet and remote as this locality?”  
   
The looks on all three faces suggested quite clearly that they had been hoping to avoid that question. It was the younger omega who spoke.  
   
“Cles and I went down to Plymouth to see an exhibition of paintings, which was touring the country from London”, he explained. “Isadora had arrived off the boat from Spain and was planning to travel up to Bristol the next day, so he attended the exhibition too. We, um, met.”  
   
I smiled inwardly at the picture. The dashing, gallant young alpha meeting the omega country bumpkin purely by chance, and falling in love with him. It was rather charming.  
   
“I am to take it that Mr. Persano did not proceed to Bristol as planned?” Cas said carefully.  
   
Judging by all those red faces, he was right. 

“It was all right and proper”, Clesek Trevelyan said, a little defensively. “Isadora is fabulously wealthy, so it was easy for him to rent a small cottage in the village, and to pursue his suit there. Jory, ahem, seemed to like him.”

I strongly suspected that there was precious little 'seemed to' about that.

“Of course, Mr. Taylor did not take well to a rival appearing on the scene, let alone a foreigner”, Alfred Trevelyan said. “Rather amusing, as he is actually French by birth and changed his name when he came over here. He threatened to stop our use of his road, which would have greatly inconvenienced us. Three days ago he called round when we were both out, and Jory told him very firmly that there could be nothing between them.”

Cas' eyes narrowed for some reason. He had spotted something in that seemingly clear statement, though I had no idea as to what.

II

“The whole business has divided the village”, his mate said sadly. “Mr. Taylor owned a lot of properties around here, and the people who were dependent on him did not like Isadora at all. But he was a charming soul, and those not dependent on Hingston Hall for their livelihoods liked him a lot. We all did.”

His brother blushed.

“I had told him that I was prepared to accept his suit”, he said carefully. “That was two days ago. Yesterday he was invited up to the Hall for dinner, which alarmed me somewhat, although at least there were some other guests as well.”

“We approach the meat of the problem”, Cas said. “Who were they, please?”

“Doctor Frinton, as already mentioned”, Clesek Trevelyan said. “Mr. Taylor's niece and heiress to the estate, Miss Clara. She is seventeen, the daughter of his late brother Nathan. Then there was Lord Guyhirn, the second-most important landowner in the district, who was paying court to Miss Clara, successfully I might add. And Miss Sally, Mr. Taylor's sister. She is actually co-owner of the estate, but I understand that the inheritance rules only allow her to draw down an income, not to play any part in the running of affairs.”

“Mr. Novak needs more than that”, his brother said shrewdly. “Mr. Taylor's father Etienne came here with his family some twenty-five years ago; he married Lady Cynthia Diamond, who owned the Hall and was the last of her line. They did not have any more children and are both dead now, Lady Cynthia willing the estate to her new family as she had no close relations. Both Miss Clara and Miss Sally are complete flibbertigibbets with not a thought between them, though I would wager both might be concerned that his marriage might produce a male heir.”

“Motive”, I said firmly. “And since Lord Guyhirn is all but engaged to Miss Clara, he would have motive as well.”

“He is one of those unpleasant oily alphas”, Jory Trevelyan said with a shudder. “Just turned eighteen; his father died six years ago, and an uncle ran the estate in the meanwhile. I am only glad I did not have to suffer his attentions as well as Lord Taylor's.”

“I only know what little I have heard from local gossip about what happened at the dinner”, Alfred Trevelyan said. “I think it would be best if you were to approach Doctor Frinton for what actually happened. He is good with facts, and he was actually there.”

+~+~+

Although he was friendly enough when he greeted us at his surgery the following day, I thought that I could detect a hint of wariness in the beta doctor's demeanour. Possibly he was against us having been called in on what he regarded as 'his case'? Some doctors were territorial like that. Although to be fair, the way I had almost snarled at the barmaid when she had given Cas a Look in the pub the previous evening, I was probably not in much of a position to complain!

“It is all very sad”, the doctor said ruefully. “Close communities like this can be wonderful places to live and work, but when you get divisions and arguments, they seem so much worse.”

“Please tell us precisely what happened that fateful evening”, Cas said.

The doctor took out a notebook.

“I wrote down everything at the time”, he explained, “because I knew, given the circumstances, that there would have to be some sort of investigation. As I am sure you might guess, hardly anyone in the village really knew just how famous Mr. Persano was during his brief stay here, which was probably just as well.”

“Dinner itself passed off fairly uneventfully, after which Mr, Guyhirn had to leave to meet his brother off the train from Plymouth before heading home”, he continued. “That was about seven o'clock, and it was just getting dark outside. The remaining five of us – myself, Mr, Taylor, Mr. Persano, Miss Sally and Miss Clara – took coffee. Conversations were polite if a little stilted; there was a definite air of tension in the room between the two alphas. The ladies adjourned to their own room at just after half-past seven.”

“It must have been shortly before eight that Mr. Taylor asked Mr. Persano if he could discuss something with him. They went to the gun-room, which is sort of next door to the lounge where the rest of us remained.”

“Sort of?” I asked, puzzled.

“The intervening room is only really a large cupboard”, the doctor explained, “and it does not go all the way back, so there is a connecting door around it in the corner by the wall, although the two men left by the door to the corridor. Less than five minutes later – I remember the clock in the corner striking the hour in the interim – we heard the sound of a furious argument. Two things then happened almost simultaneously. First, there was a strange hissing sound from their room, which must have been loud to have penetrated through the very solid connecting door. It was more like gas escaping that an animal noise, I thought. And second, which I thought most odd, both men screamed.”

“Screamed?” Cas inquired.

“They were definitely screams, I would say of fear”, the doctor said firmly. “I of course ran over to the connecting door. Opening it, I noticed several things in quick succession. First, Mr. Taylor lay dying on the fireside rug, his body still bleeding. Second, there was a strong and unpleasant smell in the air, almost acidic, and it made my eyes water immediately, so I made haste to open the window in the room itself, then went to the door. The noise had alerted both the ladies, from their room across the hall, and some of the servants. I instructed the ladies to remain where they were, and told Janet, the maid, to fetch the two footmen, James and John. Third, Mr. Persano was sat at the table, a look of complete rapture on his face, and a closed match-box was the only object before him. And fourth and perhaps importantly, the door to the billiard-room on the other side was very slightly open. Not so much that anyone could walk through it, though.”

“What did you do next?” Cas asked. 

“I first checked Mr. Taylor, but it was clear that there was nothing I could do for him”, the doctor said. “He had been stabbed, almost certainly with the blooded dagger that lay next to him. Then I turned to Mr. Persano, who was docile enough, and when James came they took him to another room, John remaining with him just in case. James then ran for the police, Constable Penfold, down in the village.”

“Did you examine the match-box?” Cas asked.

“I did”, the doctor said, “and the contents certainly surprised me. It was a toy rubber worm, the sort one sometimes finds in Christmas crackers. I handled it with gloves, of course, but I could detect nothing unusual about it, except of course its very presence.”

“Not the source of the strange odour, then”, Cas remarked. The doctor shook his head.

III

“I think that that was caused by something thrown into the fire”, he said, scratching his short beard. “Of course that is pure speculation, but I did notice that it was burning quite fiercely when I was examining the body next to it. If it had not been for the open door to the billiard-room, I would have surmised that Mr. Taylor tried to suffocate Mr. Persano by throwing some toxic chemical on the fire and holding him close to it, only for Mr. Persano to stab him in self-defence.”

“Did the constable find anything when he examined the room later?” Cas asked.

“Nothing in the room itself”, the doctor said, “but the balcony door out of the billiard-room was unlocked, which was odd. I know for a fact that Mr. Taylor always kept his doors locked, after someone broke into one of his out-buildings last year. You will have to ask the local policeman if he found anything else; I of course did not inquire."

“Most intriguing”, Cas said. “You are perhaps fortunate, doctor?”

“Pardon?”

“All the other diners that evening had motive to wish Mr. Taylor out of this world, except your good self”, Cas said reasonably. “Mr. Persano to dispose of a rival in love, and the dead man's sister and daughter to gain control of their funds. Only you had nothing to gain.”

How did he do that? The doctor blushed fiercely.

“Doctor?” Cas prodded gently.

“I am sure your investigations would have unearthed the fact eventually”, he said ruefully. “Jory Poldark is my godson, and as I have no children of my own, we are very close. Mr. Taylor asked me to use that relationship to push his suit, and I refused.”

“When was that?” Cas asked at once.

“The day before his death.”

Ah.

+~+~+

Before leaving the house, Cas spoke briefly to one of the house-maids, though he did not tell me why. We then called on Constable Penfold, who was (like too many policemen nowadays) depressingly young. 

“I examined the Hall immediately I got there”, he said, “but it was dark by that time, and I could find nothing. I went back at first light the following morning however and found a set of tracks leading from the billiard-room door to the door in the back garden wall.”

Cas looked hard at him. I do not know how he did it, but somehow he was usually able to force information out of people despite their best efforts. The constable sighed. 

“All right”, he said heavily. “As well as the tracks, there were marks as well. That to me suggested someone walking with a stick, so naturally I immediately thought of the doctor.”

“Or someone who wished to throw suspicion on him”, Cas said with a smile. “Most interesting. But you found something else too, did you not?”

Damn, he was good!

“I took prints from everyone in the house for the records”, the constable admitted. “At least, that was what I told them. There was a set of prints on the dagger, so I hoped to match them with the killer, whoever they were.”

“Did they match?” I asked.

“Oh yes”, he said heavily. “They matched perfectly. They were Mr. Taylor's own!”

+~+~+

“This case makes no sense!” I grumbled. “A man invites his love rival into a room, the rival goes mad, the man stabs himself, someone from outside gets in and out.... it's impossible!”

“We need to see Mr. Isadora Persano”, Cas said. “And in the circumstances, I think we should not see him alone.”

I looked at him in surprise.

+~+~+

The following day the two of us, along with Jory Poldark and Doctor Frinton, took a carriage to Launceston Asylum, where after an almost brutal interrogation from a huge Matron (who still simpered at Cas, damnation!), we were allowed to see the patient. 

Isadora Persano was, by any definition, a stunningly beautiful young man. He had just enough Spanish blood in him to give him a hawk-like face yet his skin was not that tanned, and the deep brown eyes that examined us were wary if not fearful. He smiled when he saw Jory, and kissed his hand whilst shaking hands with the rest of us, but did not speak.

“We are here today to discuss the murder of Mr. Simon Taylor”, Cas said, seating himself at the table with the rest of us. I sat next to him, Mr. Persano was opposite us, and Doctor Frinton and Jory Poldark sat between us.

“Murder?” the doctor questioned. “You are sure?”

“You should know”, Cas said quietly. “You were one of the people who murdered him.”

I noticed that Jory Poldark reached over and placed a restraining hand on Mr. Persano's wrist. The Spaniard twitched, but remained silent.

“There was one small piece of information that you held back from your story, doctor”, Cas said. “You did not tell us that when you attended dinner that evening, you took your medical bag with you. Winchester here is fond of his profession, but even he does not take his bag to social events. The maid confirmed my suspicion, which clearly showed pre-meditation on your part.”

“Sir....” Doctor Frinton began.

“I know why you did it”, Cas said, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence of the overly large room. “Because you were not the only one to withhold information in this case. Was he, Mr. Poldark?”

The omega blushed. Mr. Persano reached over to take his hand, and glared at Cas. I shuddered at the anger in those dark eyes, and wished that I had brought my own gun with me.

“I will tell you what actually happened that evening”, Cas said, “and then I will tell you what I intend to do about it. The doctor's story was true up to the part about the ladies leaving for their own room at just after half-past seven, but what happened next was very different. Because it involved pre-meditated and cold-blooded murder.”

IV

“One of the many advantages of working with a doctor is that one becomes cognisant of certain useful pieces of information. For example, I happen to know that doctors now have access to a new type of cream which can be used to remove virtually all evidence of an alpha's mating-bite on their omega. However, this presupposes that the bite itself was unwelcome, and most omegas wear their marks with pride. It was clear to me, very soon after meeting you Mr. Poldark, that you were using such a cream. Yet you told me that matters with Mr. Persano had not progressed as far as the bed-chamber, and for all the lusty reputation of the Spanish as a race, I am inclined to believe that. So where did this mating-bite come from?”

Jory Poldark let out something that sounded suspiciously like a sob, Mr. Persano left his chair and moved round behind him, embracing him protectively. I somehow knew not only that this alpha was far, far from insane, but also that he would kill to protect his omega. I moved instinctively closer to Cas, though whether for his protection or mine I knew not.

“We need not disturb Mr. Poldark any further by dwelling on those events”, Cas continued. “It was done, and Mr. Taylor doubtless expected the omega he had claimed to fall into his lap. Instead he paid for his foul, vile deed with his life.”

“Once the ladies are safely gone, Mr. Persano and Doctor Frinton deal swiftly with Mr Taylor. I would hazard a guess that chloroform was involved first, as they would wish the doomed man to know the reason for his death, and to suffer beforehand, as he had made poor Jory Poldark suffer. The torture – let us call it that, for that is what it was – lasted for half an hour before the stage was then set for the death of a rapist.”

“Mr. Persano had already laid a set of tracks to the back garden wall earlier that day, most probably by arriving a little early and walking around the garden for some fresh air. Now, at eight o'clock, he and the doctor set the scene. The door to the billiard-room and that room's door outside are both unlocked, which with the tracks will suggest an outside killer. Mr. Taylor is stabbed with a dagger by Mr. Persano. That dagger goes into the doctor's bag – for who would think of asking to look there? - and a second one, once Mr. Taylor's own prints have been impressed onto it, is inserted into the wound and then placed next to the dying man. Confusion is being piled upon misdirection. Mr. Persano then takes his position at the table, the match-box with a child's toy placed in front of him. Once the doctor is assured that Mr. Taylor is going to bleed to death, he and Mr. Persano both scream out, and moments later he appears at the door of the dead man's room – the room of the man he has just killed. Mr. Persano, who has clearly been driven mad by the fumes from the fire – a chemical kindly supplied by his future mate's godfather – is then taken away to an asylum, and the house eventually falls silent.”

Jory Poldark sniffed mournfully.

“And we would do it again, for my Jory!” Mr. Persano spoke at last, sounding defiant. "I would do anything for the man I love!"

“What do you intend to do?” the doctor asked, looking anxious.

Cas rose to his feet.

“Legally, Mr. Taylor was guilty only on a count of rape, serious enough as that is”, he said slowly. “It had been made patently clear to him that Mr. Poldark here was not his and never would be, and moreover, that he wished to become the mate of Mr. Persano. Had the attack taken place after mating, no court in the land would hesitate in saying that an alpha who took another alpha's omega deserved everything he got; indeed, the law of the land says precisely that. Mr. Persano, I wish you well for the future. I do advise, however, that your recovery is not too fast. Perhaps a prolonged stay in a nice Cornish farmhouse would be beneficial to you?”

He bowed to the three men and left, with me scuttling after him.

+~+~+

“We have effectively covered up a murder”, I said reflectively, as I looked out of the window of our first-class carriage. I turned round to say something more to him – and froze.

He was rapidly removing his clothes.

“I thought we might try to create some happier memories of the West Country”, he said with a smirk. “If, of course, someone in his late forties is up to such a thing....?”

I growled, and quickly began to divest myself of my clothes. His own happy growling at the sight made me hard almost immediately, which I was quite proud of having achieved for someone of my advanced years.....

Cas had pulled the arm-rests on my side of the carriage up, and almost instinctively I lay face down on them, whining in anticipation. He quickly positioned himself above me, then the bastard began rutting against my crack, nibbling at my neck at one and the same time.

“Take me, Cas!” I almost snarled.

And in the name of all that was holy, he did, fingering me open with almost obscene speed before pushing steadily home, until he was nestled inside of he, his long lithe body resting on top of mine. I sighed contentedly, wishing that we could stay like this forever.

“Only as far as Exeter”, he muttered, showing that freaky mind-reading skill of his.

“Bite me!” I urged. 

He tensed, and I knew he was thinking of the case just gone.

“I don't care!” I said firmly. “I'm yours, Cas, far more than any omega ever belonged to his alpha. Bite me!”

And with a possessive growl he did, thrusting right against my prostate and biting a claiming-mark into my neck at one and the same time. I came violently, overwhelmed with sensation. Of course he had left me love-bites before, often to the great amusement of Mrs. Singer and Mrs. Lindberg, but a claiming-mark was always much bigger, and I wanted one, wanted it passionately and absolutely. I wanted to belong to this man in every way that was physically possible, to be as one with him for the rest of our natural lives together.

+~+~+

I may have had to hobble a bit when we changed trains at Exeter, but it was worth it. Especially when I discovered that he had been wearing a plug all this time, and was ready for me to return the favour all the way back to London. Which I was more than happy to do. Though I was grateful we went via the Great Western, for it meant that the intensely painful cab-ride back to Baker Street was that much shorter! And the fact that I limped into our rooms whilst he strolled in seemingly unaffected by what had taken place - well, it was still damnably unfair!

+~+~+

From one end of the island of Britain to the other; Cornwall to Caithness. Our next case takes us to the very Far North of Scotland, and Cas abandons me at the railway station.....


	5. Case 95: Long Distance Call (1899)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'The Affair At Foulkes Rath'.

I

If Mr. H.G. Wells was right and there was life on Mars, I thought to myself, then it should come here. It would feel right at home. Only the gentle swaying of the train as we bowled across the tundra suggested anything akin to civilization, and it seemed an eternity since the last station or sign of human life. I snuggled next to the human heater beside me, and he wrapped an obliging arm around me.

Cas and I had come north in response to a call from a Sergeant Jophiel Andrews of the Caithness Constabulary, based in the most northerly town on mainland Great Britain, Thurso. We had been summoned late the previous evening by telegram with precious little information except that the crime was murder by skean-dhu, which was.... unusual. We had been fortunate enough to make the night sleeper at Euston, and Cas had even let me sleep most of the way. Well, most of it. Even alphas in their late forties had needs!

We had changed earlier in the day to the Highland Railway Company's metals at Perth, after which our progress had slowed considerably. Now, what with us just having passed the longest day of the year, our northerly latitudes meant that the light was still strong as our train juddered to a halt at Dunlochlann Halt, a decrepit one-platform affair whose pitiful, windswept condition matched our exhausted moods.

Fortunately Sergeant Andrews was waiting for us in a cab, ready to take us to the scene of the crime at Foulkes Rath, the largest house in the area. The sergeant was a huge red-haired alpha who was clearly apologetic at having dragged us all the way up here, but insistent that we would find this case 'a challenge'.

“Why?” Cas asked pointedly. The sleeper train had only provided tea, not coffee, which had made him tetchy all day. A cup of something that had called itself coffee but had smelled like ditch-water, which I had snaffled during a brief pause at Inverness, had not helped, and had been deposited out of the window soon after.

“The lads at the station love your stories, doctor”, he told me. “And when we got a case like this, with a man apparently murdered by his own son... well!”

It was fortunate that the great house was situated close to the railway line – indeed, it was one of only four buildings I could make out in the evening light, and presumably the main reason for the halt. The sergeant kindly suggested that we should be shown to our rooms in order to freshen up, and I took the opportunity to send a message to the kitchen pleading for coffee. It was worth it when we came downstairs and Cas' eyes lit up at the steaming coffee-pot. The sergeant had clearly read my stories closely enough not to stand between my friend and his caffeine fix, otherwise we might well have had two murders on our hands!

Some little time later, I and a mercifully re-caffeinated consulting detective were shown into the room where the body had been found. Cas looked around disapprovingly.

“A herd of elephants might as well have come through!” he snorted, sitting gently in one of the huge armchairs with his third cup. “Still, at least you can fill us in on what happened, sergeant, and where better than here?”

The policeman nodded. 

“I should explain that this is a place with history”, he began. “There has been a house at Foulkes Rath since the time the Vikings held sway here; legend says that the original Fulk had a fort, or rath here, hence the name. The village, such as it is, has the same name; Dunlochlann means 'fort of the Viking'. The building here dates back to the start of the eighteenth century. The railway only came through some twenty-odd years ago, and the halt was provided in return for access onwards; the Urquharts own a huge swathe of land hereabouts, mostly for shooting. There are no roads, but a track runs round via the lochs to Halkirk, which is just over a mile away and the next station towards Wick.”

“The dead man is – was – Mr. Francis Urquhart, lord of the manor. He had assembled a small gathering of guests to mark his seventieth birthday, which had fallen on the seventeenth. All seemed well until a message arrived, at exactly a quarter to eight....”

“How do you know that? Cas cut in.

“The butler, Turner, went to the door, and he remembered that the clock was striking the three-quarter-hour as he opened it.”

“Very observant of him”, Cas said. “Pray continue.”

“Mr. Urquhart and his guests were just finishing dinner, and about to adjourn to the billiard-room for some port and a few games”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Francis did not react visibly when he saw the message, but took it to his study to read again. When he did not come back to the party, his son Mr. Ross came looking for him.”

The sergeant reached into his long sock and produced what I assumed was his own weapon. It was similar to a dagger, just under a foot long and with an engraved blade. I shuddered at the sight of it.

“This is mine”, he said, “but it is about the same size as the one found by poor Mr. Francis. And that weapon, gentlemen, was the property of his alpha first-born son, Mr. Ross. The new lord of the manor.”

“Ah”, Cas said.

“You see my point”, the sergeant said grimly. “Mr. Ross had motive; he is heir to the estate. He had means; the weapon found at the scene of the crime. And he had the opportunity, as he was there.”

“Yet clearly you do not think him guilty”, Cas said. “Why?”

The sergeant scratched his head.

“Don't really know”, he admitted ruefully. “It just seems a bit too easy. Mr. Ross denies it, but it looks very bad. And then there was the note.”

“What note?” Cas asked.

The sergeant handed over a piece of writing-paper to Cas, and I leaned across to read it. It said 'Ross – a killer?', and was underlined twice. Cas frowned.

“Did you tackle Mr. Ross Urquhart about this?” he asked.

“I asked if there was anything in his past that would merit such a claim”, the sergeant said. “He hummed and hahed a bit, but eventually admitted that he had killed one of those witch-doctors whilst he was serving as a medico in Africa a few years back. The guy had ordered seven children from a village to be put to death 'to appease the spirits', he claimed.”

“So Mr. Ross is a doctor?” I asked.

“So is his son”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Ross is chief medico at the surgery up on the coast in Thurso, whilst his son Mr. Fergus – a beta - is based in Halkirk and does all the countryside around.”

“Who else was here at the time?” Cas asked.

“Apart from the servants, just two”, the sergeant said. “Angus MacLeod, the estate manager, and Michael Farron, Lord Francis' legal man. I have my doubts about MacLeod. He was known to have disagreed with the late Mr. Francis over the way he wanted the estate run. And he is one of those alphas who always thinks he knows best.”

“Atbara!” I suddenly exclaimed. 

II

Both Cas and the sergeant looked at me as if they thought I had gone mad, but were too polite to say.

“That is where I saw the name Urquhart recently!” I told them. “Last year. The decisive battle against the Mahdists, in Sudan. We only lost twenty-six men, but there was an Urquhart amongst them, and I remember the article saying that he was the last of his line.”

“That would have been Major Beauchamp Urquhart”, the sergeant said. “Yes, I wondered about that, especially with events here. The Clan Urquhart has no clan leader just now, and the different branches of the clan have been manoeuvring to state their claims. And Mr. Farron did say he had been called here a lot in recent times, although of course he would not go into details.”

“Quite right and proper”, Cas said. “How and when was the body discovered?”

“There is no telegraph office here, of course”, the sergeant said, “so they have an arrangement that outside messages go to Halkirk, and messages in get sent back from there. However, the telegraph line is down this week, so I understand that they are sending the messages to Helmsdale, way back down the line, and they are then sent up on the next train to Halkirk and distributed from there. This telegram, along with two others, came up on the evening goods train. I talked with the stationmaster at Halkirk, and he says that the other two messages were both for Thurso, so he held them for the last passenger train an hour later and sent his son out with the one to here.”

“I do not suppose the butler succumbed to the sin of human curiosity, and looked at it?” Cas asked. The sergeant grinned.

“He did not, but the boy noticed who it was from”, he said. “I tracked the name to a firm of the top lawyers in London. It seemed that Lord Francis was thinking his own man was not up to the job.”

“If Mr. Farron knew or suspected that fact, then that gives him motive as well”, Cas said. “What happened next?”

“The three others went to the billiard-room and played a few games before the absence of their host was really noticed”, the sergeant said. “It was sometime between half-past eight and a quarter to nine before Mr. Ross went to see what was holding him up. He claims that he found his father dead, with his own skean-dhu lying next to him. He not unnaturally picked it up – and Turner chose that moment to appear, worse luck!”

“And then?” Cas prompted.

“A servant was dispatched to ride to Doctor Fergus in Halkirk, and barely an hour later, he got here. The boy nearly missed him; he'd gone out for an evening stroll, and was returning to his house when the boy was starting to look elsewhere for him. He examined the body, and estimated the time of death to be around eight thirty, possibly just moments before his father entered the room. It appeared that the dead man had been chloroformed before being stabbed, judging from fragments of cloth found caught in his beard. The doctor said that death would have been almost instantaneous from the location of the wound.”

“The telegram?” I asked.

“That was the other odd part”, the sergeant said. “Mr. Francis apparently set his own fire – something Turner told me he hardly ever did – and it was burning merrily when Mr. Ross entered the room. Turner said the place was stifling. As we could not find it, I presume the telegram went up in smoke, though what was on it I do not know.”

“The London lawyers would probably tell us, once they understand events here”, Cas said. “You were right to call us in, sergeant. This really is a most interesting case. Of course the solution is fairly obvious, but I will need to spend a day checking my facts.”

We both stared at him.

“Obvious?” the sergeant said at last. “How? Who?”

“I hope that Mr. Ross can accommodate us for another night, even though he under suspicion”, Cas said. “I hardly think he is going anywhere from here.”

“Of course”, the sergeant said, looking at him suspiciously. “I will go and arrange things.”

He left. 

“You know who did it?” I asked.

“I can be fairly certain”, he said. “However, I would still like to check my facts. And I really would like some sleep. I hardly got any on the way up.”

“And who's fault was that?” I shot back. 

“Mine”, he said unashamedly. “But I shall do better on the way back.”

I little knew then what he meant by that at the time, but made a mental note to make sure the house staff knew to provide Cas with coffee the following morning. I valued my life!

+~+~+

After breakfast (with coffee, thankfully!), we were met by the sergeant.

“There has been a Development, sirs”, he said, sounding almost mournful about it.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Someone has stolen some chloroform from Doctor Fergus Urquhart's surgery”, Cas said.

The sergeant stared at him in shock, his mouth falling open.

“How the blazes did you know that?” he demanded. 

“Because it is what I expected to happen”, Cas said frankly. “I assume he told you when he discovered the loss this morning?”

“He did”, the sergeant said suspiciously. “Professional job too; from the scratches they used a lock-pick, and they even re-locked the cupboard after themselves. He only found it because he needed something for one of today's patients.”

“Excellent!” Cas beamed. “That is exactly what I hoped would happen. The doctor and I intend to do some sight-seeing today, but this evening we will, with your assistance, attempt a reconstruction of the crime. Oh, by the way, who has access to Doctor Urquhart's surgery?”

“His family, of course, and Mr. MacLeod, who lives next door but one. The doctor is a bit forgetful, and has locked himself out of his own house on more than one occasion. Mrs. MacLeod keeps a spare key for him.”

“Interesting”, Cas smiled. “Come, doctor. We have one call to make, then I fancy taking a carriage to that tourist trap that is John o' Groats, so we may claim to have stood at the end of Great Britain.”

The sergeant looked a little annoyed, but clearly reckoned (correctly) that Cas would help him only when he was ready. I went to get my stick.

III

We went to the station, and Cas spent some time examining both the platform and trackbed before a northbound train drew in and stuttered to a halt. Apart from Foulkes Rath and the three other houses that comprised the hamlet of Dunlochlann, the empty tundra stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions, and I was reminded that this was how the whole island of Great Britain must once have looked back in the Ice Age. And if the scientists were right, would one day look again, many, many years into the future.

Scientists! What did they know?

To my surprise we only went one stop before alighting at Halkirk, where Cas asked to see the boy who had brought the message to the house that night. The stationmaster, Terence MacLeod (no relation to the estate manager, it turned out) looked uncertain at this, but was reassured when Cas insisted that he remain for what would only be a short interview. His son, Hugh, was a wiry twelve-year-old boy who clearly feared the worst, judging from his slight shaking.

“You strike me as an observant young lad”, Cas said. “I assume from what I have seen that you walked down the line to take the message to the house?”

“I did, sir”, the boy said politely. “The road round is twice as far, and I knew that if I got there quick enough, I could catch the last train back.”

“What happened when you handed over your telegram?” Cas asked.

The boy glanced nervously at his father, who nodded.

“Mr. Turner, sir, he took it to the master, and he came back almost at once. No reply, he said, and gave me a sixpence for my trouble. I was back at the station just as the train was coming in.”

Cas nodded, and leaned forward.

“Did anyone else get on at Dunlochlann?” he asked.

The boy hesitated, but shook his head. Cas frowned.

“The truth, please, Master MacLeod!” he said firmly.

“There was no-one on the platform, but I heard a door shut whilst I was in the carriage”, the boy said quietly. “I think it was on the far side of the train, so I thought someone was just hitching a ride, like me. Though Mr. Jones – the stationmaster there – he doesn't mind if I do it. Honest!”

Cas nodded. 

“Thank you”, he smiled. “The doctor and I need to explore your station yard for a little, but you have been most helpful.”

He pressed a florin into the surprised boy's hand, smiled at him, then led me out. 

“What are we looking for?” I asked. 

“That”, he said, gesturing to a lone siding with a few wind-scarred trucks sitting forlornly in it.”

“A line of trucks?” I queried, feeling totally lost.

He did not answer, but led me down the platform ramp and across the tracks until we were round behind the trucks. Beyond the siding were a couple of dilapidated sheds, which Cas seemed to find fascinating, and I found.... not. Whatever he was looking for, he clearly found it if his happy expression was anything to go by.

“Come”, he said. “We shall hire a carriage in this town and drive to the end of the world for the day, then return and set Sergeant Andrews' mind at rest. But we shall pay a short call first.”

+~+~+

Cas' short call was barely five minutes, to the surgery of Doctor Fergus Urquhart to express his condolences and to presumably ask more questions about the stolen chloroform. When he returned he was smiling, which I took to be a good sign.

It was a lovely day, and mercifully the gusty winds of the day before had abated. Cas drove us to Wick first, where we had an early lunch before heading north. John o' Groats turned out to be one of those villages which seemed to go on forever, but it was memorable to stand there with my friend, his impossible hair blown into an even worse state than usual by the strong winds around the top of Scotland. We then adjourned to Thurso, a quaint little town with some pleasant shops. I was sorry to leave it, but I felt a rising sense of anticipation as we returned to the stables in Halkirk to find the sergeant waiting impatiently for us.

“Thank you for your forbearance”, Cas smiled. “I will now attempt to show you how the murder was perpetrated. I am afraid it will involve a good deal of travel, but it should prove conclusive.”

He returned the carriage, and I was surprised when he emerged with three fresh horses. We each mounted one, and he led us down to a quiet side-road. 

“Our murderer planned this very well”, he said softly. “He begins by leaving Halkirk and walking to Dunlochlann along the back roads. He knows the area, so he is able to avoid being seen. Fortunately, sergeant, it rained the night before the murder, so if you and your men follow this road, you may find footprints.”

“Why not use the railway track?” the sergeant asked. “It's quicker.”

“He could not risk being seen”, Cas explained, “and the railway is much more open than the road. Since we do not wish to trample on potential evidence, we will afford ourselves that luxury.”

He turned his horse and led us back and then down another road, which intersected with the railway track. He turned onto it, and headed down the single-track line back to Dunlochlann and Foulkes Rath. Some way before the halt, he pulled off the tracks and rode under one of the few trees in the barren landscape. We pulled in alongside him.

“The road ahead is the one from Halkirk”, he said, pointing to where a barely-passable dirt track crossed the line a short distance ahead of us. “We shall tie the horses here and take the road. I believe that our murderer, thinking there was an outside chance of his being seen even in this remote spot, would have cut across the fields to Foulkes Rath in order to kill Mr. Francis Urquhart.”

“Who was it?” the sergeant pressed.

IV

“His grandson, Doctor Fergus Urquhart.”

+~+~+

The sergeant stared at Cas as if he had gone mad.

“How the blazes did he kill him before he even got there?” he demanded. “And he's a doctor! I don't believe it!”

Cas pulled out his watch and looked at it.

“That evening, a goods train brings with it telegram which, it turned out, did have a bearing on this case”, he said. “It was sent by the killer, anonymously, and made some sort of accusation against Mr. Ross Urquhart. Its purpose was in what it achieved, making the victim withdraw from the other men for a short time. The goods train reaches Halkirk at around twenty minutes past seven...”

“Wait a minute”, I objected. “Why did the driver not give the message to the stationmaster at Dunlochlann when he passed there?”

“Because he would only hand it over to where he knew there was a telegraph office that could stamp it as received”, Cas explained. “Otherwise, if it had gone astray, he might lose his job. The practice is technically unlawful, but the railway company will turn a blind eye as long as nothing goes missing, and only raise hell if it does. Halkirk telegraph office may be out of action, but they can still stamp inbound telegrams for the people in Dunlochlann.”

“Oh”, I said.

“The train reaches Halkirk before half-past seven, and the telegram is handed over”, Cas went on. The stationmaster there sends his son back down the tracks with the telegram, knowing there are no trains due. His son can be to Foulkes Rath and back in forty-five minutes even if he only walks, and even with the days as long as they are this far north, it is not that warm and he will be prone to hurry. The doctor is headed in the same direction, most fortunately for him on the back roads. He was riding against the boy walking, so reached the house first even though he had a longer track. I checked this morning, and from the back of the house one can see across to the railway line and thus anyone approaching down it.”

“Matters play right into his hands. On reading the accusatory telegram, Mr. Francis Urquhart does exactly what his grandson knows he does when he needs to think things through. He adjourns to his study. His grandson is waiting for him outside that room; he sees that his grandfather is alone, and knocks at the glass. The victim is doubtless surprised, but of course admits him. It is relatively easy for the doctor to first chloroform him, then stab him. The only danger is that someone may interrupt them, but as he intends to frame his father for his grandfather's death, he is prepared to risk all for such high stakes.”

“I cannot believe it!" the sergeant exclaimed.

“Who else would have access to his father's skean-dhu?” Cas asked mercilessly. “He lays and stokes up the fire, because it is better that the body temperature be kept high to imply a later death, even though he intends to be the one to examine the body. It is also used to dispose of the telegram, which he sent I would hazard from Helmsdale; the police will think that it was his father who sent it, aiming to draw the victim to the study. He then leaves, and heads back across the fields and round to the station. It is approximately five minutes past eight.”

“Just moments later, the last passenger train of the day arrives at Dunlochlann Station. It is only a single platform, so it is easy for the doctor to slip around the blind side of the train and get himself into a carriage at the back. The conductor cannot access the non-corridor carriage until it reaches Halkirk, and on arrival our killer leaves the train again on the blind side, slipping behind the trucks in the siding. If you go and look there, sergeant, you will find a rather distinctive set of footprints which you should be able to link to Doctor Fergus' boots. Next, he strolls back to the surgery, making a point of calling in briefly at the local tavern. He then meets the boy who bears the news that his grandfather had been brutally murdered. Shocked, he rides to the scene, and is able to claim that the murder happened at least half an hour after it actually did, at a time when he was drinking with his friends in Halkirk. The perfect alibi. Not forgetting, of course, the scrawled note.”

“But that pointed at his father”, I said. “'Ross - a killer?'” 

Cas shook his head.

“That may be what hangs him”, he said. “The note itself was written by the killer, on a sheet of paper he had extracted from his grandfather's writing-paper. But that particular high-quality notepaper numbers its sheets. The note was on sheet twenty-one – but sheet twenty-two, the next one down and the one on top when the body was found, bore no impression. Yet why would a man who has a quality writing-desk take one sheet away, write a few words on it, then leave it in so obvious a place as anyone could find it?”

“I'll get him!” the sergeant said firmly.

+~+~+

He did get him. As well as the footprints Cas had found in the siding at Halkirk, more were found not only down the road from Halkirk to Dunlochlann, but also on the gravel outside the dead man's study and, most incriminating of all, a partial footprint from where he had hauled the body across to the fire. He denied it at first, but when his father disowned him it seemed to break him, and he confessed all. I felt sorry for his young family, who had to cope with the loss of their provider, but it was justice. A life for a life.

V

I must admit that I was a little surprised that Cas chose to break our journey home at Inverness for two days, even though the little town was rather charming, but I assumed that he had his reasons. He did, as I would soon find out. But not before a curious incident in the capital of the Far North.

Cas and I were exploring the small town that evening when we came to a kilt shop. I was overcome with a sudden urge to have one, especially as my mother had been a Campbell. Of course it was not that simple; it turned out that there were several Campbell tartans, and if I wanted the correct one – the salesman looked at me in horror when I asked why this was important, as if I had committed some unimaginable faux pas – I would have to have it made especially and posted to me in London. Fortunately he was able to locate the correct tartan from my mother's birth-town, Jedburgh.

Of course, I had to put my foot in it by asking Cas if he had any Scottish blood in his family.

“My mother's great-grandmother was a MacDonnell”, he said. “They lived in Antrim, and were Scottish some time before that. I believe that they crossed the North Channel as part of King James the First's Ulster Plantation.”

The salesman looked at him in surprise, then at me before scurrying away.

“What is his problem?” I wondered.

Cas chuckled.

“The MacDonnells are a branch of the Scottish MacDonalds”, he explained, “some of whose brethren were done to death on the orders of a Campbell in Glencoe back in sixteen hundred and ninety-two. People here have long memories.”

I shuddered, reminded of that terrible atrocity perpetrated in the name of William of Orange. Fortunately the salesman chose that moment to return with a blue-green tartan, which turned out to be that of the MacDonnells. As they had it in Cas' size, he decided to try it on. I skulked around the shop, trying to avoid what I was sure was the salesman's disapproving look. I could not help my ancestors!

A cough from behind me told me Cas was ready. I turned round, and.....

Oh. My. God!

I honestly thought that I was going to pass out! Castiel James Novak was a good-looking man normally, but with that kilt and his white shirt, he looked absolutely gorgeous. 

“That looks... good on you”, I managed.

He looked at me in concern, then smiled knowingly.

“I may not be a true Scotsman”, he whispered in my ear, “but I am not wearing anything underneath it!”

“Buy it!” I almost snarled. He grinned at my desperation, and bastard that he was, proceeded to take far too long to make the purchase from the smirking salesman. I all but dragged him out of the shop and back to our hotel which, mercifully, was in the same street. Because walking was suddenly very difficult.

We must have made a sight, I thought (much) later, especially the alpha who seemed to be having severe breathing difficulties and was all but draping himself over his friend. It did not help either that our room was on the third floor, and all those stairs were sheer agony. Finally though we were through the door, which I just about had the sense to lock behind me. I gathered my breath, turned back to Cas – and nearly had a seizure!

The man was lying on the bed, his white shirt open at his chest and the sporran pushed to one side by the notable tent in the centre of the kilt. I did not even bother to try getting undressed, but whipped my painfully hard erect cock out and nearly ran into him, whimpering with need. I barely had the sense to remember to finger him open, whining in anticipation, and in barely a minute I was pushing home, my whines changing to a guttural snarl as I claimed what was mine.

“Is that it?” he asked cheekily. 

I scowled at him. Right, he was asking for it. Uncaring of what I was about to do to his recent purchase I went all in, thrusting as deep as I could, growling my desire and arching my back in sheer pleasure at being inside this glorious creature. He responded by pushing back to meet every single one of my thrusts, as if he wanted to become a permanent attachment to me, then he seemed to freeze before coming with a grunt of his own. I wished this could last forever, but I was too far gone, and in seconds I was following him over the edge, painting his insides whilst I fell untidily on top of him and his now come-smeared kilt.

+~+~+

We did not see much of Inverness the next day, except for the hotel restaurant. And the shower in the bathroom. Oh, and Cas had to go and buy another kilt. Plus a couple more for 'spares'.

+~+~+

We left Inverness the next day, and after a change to the North British Railway at Perth, we reached the Scottish capital. I had assumed we might explore the city a little whilst we waited for the night sleeper in a few hours' time, but instead Cas led the way onto the regular express to King's Cross. I was about to follow, but to my surprise he took his bag and pulled the door shut on me.

“What?” I exclaimed.

“This is where we part”, he smiled. “I will see you in a week.”

The guard blew his whistle and the train began to pull out of the station. I stared dumbly at the carriage began to move away from me. No! He could not be leaving me again! I couldn't cope.....

Then I felt a large hand on my shoulder and I spun round defensively, only for my mouth to drop open.

Sammy!

“Hullo, 'little' brother!” he teased. I punched him for that, and he winced in mock agony.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Your friend didn't tell you?” he asked.

“Tell me what?”

“He arranged everything”, Sammy beamed. “Jess is off with two of her friends for a relaxing week in Harrogate, the kids are all being looked after by that nanny company, and I've been given a whole week off to spend teasing a sibling who is three inches shorter than me!”

I probably – no, certainly – looked dumb standing there like a goldfish, but I could not believe it. A whole week with Sammy. And Cas had arranged it all! God, I loved that man, in or out of a kilt.

All right, preferably out!

“You look a little pale, Dean”, my brother said concernedly. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes!” I said. “Just it's been a little up and down the past few days.”

Sammy looked at me for a moment before he got it, and pulled one of his patented bitch-faces. How I had missed those!

+~+~+

In our next case, two former acquaintances come back into our lives, Cas and I make a nearly fatal journey to Tonbridge in Kent, and we have a blazing row...


	6. Case 96: All Hell Breaks Loose (1899)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Problem At Thor Bridge'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refer in this story to a 'merger' between two railway companies, the South Eastern and the London, Chatham and Dover. Legally speaking the two railways, which were amongst the most shocking in England for just about everything, came under a joint management committee, so they continued to function as separate entities but were, to all intents and purposes, worked as a single company, to the general relief of the beleaguered travelling public!

I

One of the more astute letters I received from my readers after this story was originally published questioned as to why this was the only one which was a 'Problem' rather than an 'Adventure'. I could not of course say so directly at the time – my readership was Victorian, after all – but the 'Problem' in this case led to a blazing row between me and the man I love. Because one of the blue-eyed genius' few failings was an often-times blatant disregard for his own safety, which in this case nearly killed him. Again. And the prospect of losing him, after all we had been through together, broke something in me, with unpleasant consequences all round.

I had arrived back from Scotland feeling positively joyous, after a week spent with my brother courtesy of the greatest friend in the whole world. No wonder Cas had spent so long at the Halkirk telegraph office during our last case, setting everything up for me! What a man! I would have thanked him immediately upon my return, but upon my arrival in Baker Street Mrs. Lindberg – her mother being out at the time – informed me that my friend had had to hurry to his parents' palatial London home as Sir Charles had suffered a bad fall. I winced in sympathy at Cas having to put up with all of his relatives, but had little time to dwell on such matters as one of my few regular patients, Mrs. Brocklebank, had most inopportunely decided to go into labour a full month ahead of her delivery date. I had to rush to Northumberland Street before I was even unpacked, and was mercifully in time to deliver a small but healthy alpha boy.

As so often in these cases, the delivery was one thing, whilst all the complications that ensued were quite another. I had to be very firm with my patient, telling her that she had lost a lot of blood and needed to accompany her baby to hospital. She seemed to be of the opinion that her husband would think her to be wasting time and money (I was a little annoyed that no-one amongst the servants had thought to go to fetch him, as he worked in a bank in nearby Duncannon Street), so I promised that if she agreed to go to hospital, then I would go and take the news to him, and assure him that all was well. Which was why, rather than turning left and heading towards my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square for lunch, I turned right and headed towards the bank. It was to prove a fateful decision.

I had not gone far when I came upon a small jeweller's shop. Two alphas were standing outside, dressed rather warmly for a summer's day, I thought. Then one of them chanced to turn slightly, and I recognized him.

“Mr. Benezet?” I asked.

It was indeed the self-same alpha whom I had met five years ago, in the case documented as 'Weekend At Bobby's' (the Smith-Mortimer succession), which had started on the Yorkshire-Lancashire border and ended in London. And the other alpha I now recognized as his friend from that time, Mr. Wallace. They had been instrumental in helping Cas to frustrate the dastardly plans of that ne'er-do-well, Colonel Horatio Carruthers.

“You are down from Lancashire for the day?” I asked after greetings were exchanged. 

They looked at each other nervously, before I noticed Mr. Benezet give his companion a slight nod.

“Actually”, Mr. Wallace said, “we have moved to Windsor. Ben has a post at the station, and I work as a clerk at a bank in the town.”

“Why did you come south?” I asked curiously.

Again, a look. 

“After you left”, Mr. Benezet said, “Colonel Carruthers spread certain stories around as to our, ahem, relationship. It made staying in the area.... difficult. We left some four years ago and moved to Warwickshire, before moving again last year.”

I made a mental note to engage my brain in future before opening my mouth. Of course I had suspected that the two men were what Cas and I were to each other, but this was Victorian England. One did not ask.

“You should have come to us”, I said. “We would have been delighted to help you, especially after you helped us.”

“How is Mr. Novak?” Mr. Wallace asked politely. “We read all his cases of course, but naturally we understand that there are some things you cannot publish.”

I blushed.

“His hair is as bad as ever”, I said. “And he is still impossible until after his first coffee of the morning!”

“I know the feeling!” Mr. Benezet said fervently, before dodging a swat from his friend. “It is strange that we should meet you like this, for we were only saying this morning that the happenings around our new home might be of interest to the pair of you.”

“Then either you must visit us, or we can come to Windsor”, I said. “Unfortunately Cas is attending to a family matter just now, and I have an errand from my last patient, but we should definitely meet up.”

“Perhaps Saturday?” Mr. Wallace ventured. “If you are both free?”

I promised to telegraph them once I knew, and having exchanged addresses we parted, they into the jeweller's shop, and I onto the Capital and Eastern Bank.

+~+~+

It said something for how well Mrs. Singer knew her most illustrious tenant that the tray containing a steaming coffee-pot came into our rooms less than two minutes after Cas' return from his family, tired and footsore. His father was well enough, but judging from his expression, his brothers had been even more difficult than usual. Oddly he did not say why, so I assumed – wrongly as it turned out – that it was just one of those things. Fortunately he was free on Saturday, and we dispatched a telegram to our friends to alert them that we would indeed be coming.

+~+~+

Mr. Benezet and Mr. Wallace lived in a very nice area, some little distance from the Great Western Railway's Central Station at which we arrived after changing at Slough Junction. Their house was actually in Clewer, a small village which adjoined the town of Windsor; Saxon Terrace was not at first obvious, being a set of four houses built opposite a terrace of shops in the village's quiet high street. It turned out that the houses that backed onto the River Thames were named after the Old English gods who gave their names to four of our weekdays. Our friends lived in Woden Bridge.

“I have some good news for you both”, Cas said as Mr. Wallace poured coffee for us all.

“What is it?” Mr. Benezet asked.

“I kept an eye on Colonel Carruthers after our last meeting, as I felt he had potential to become something rather unpleasant”, Cas said. “I am only sorry I did not know what he was putting you both through.”

Mr. Wallace placed a hand over his friend's, but said nothing.

“The colonel managed to obtain a commission with the Army in India, I think through an acquaintance”, Cas said. “It did not go well. His behaviour nearly incited a revolt, and he was cashiered when he was caught embezzling funds. He travelled back across Asia and made it to Africa, where he joined the fight against the Mahdi. He was killed at Omdurman, last year.”

“Good riddance”, Mr. Benezet said gently. “I am at least glad he died doing something honourable.”

“Not that honourable”, Cas said grimly. “He was killed when he tried to move his men out of position, rather than follow an order to advance. One of his own men shot him in disgust.”

“Typical!” I grunted. I noted that both alphas were wearing rings which I was sure had not been there when I had met them in London. Of course, they had been outside a jeweller's shop. I silently fingered my own one.

“So”, Cas said. “What made you 'ring' for our services?”

The bastard! I glared at him, and our hosts both chuckled.

“It's our neighbours, at Thor Bridge”, Mr. Benezet said. “And you're probably going to think it silly.”

“Tell them, Ben”, his friend urged.

“They are called the Sigurdsons, though they are as English as anyone round here”, Mr. Benezet said. “Mr. and Mrs, no children. They moved in three months ago. Two huge carts came down the road, laden with furniture.”

He stopped. Cas and I both stared at him.

“And?” Cas prompted. He had started cases with less to go on, but not often.

“Ever since they moved in, the furniture shop opposite seems suddenly very busy”, Mr. Benezet said. “It is strange. Every few days, a new piece of furniture arrives, or one departs. All high-quality, as well. My father was a cabinet-maker, and some of the things I've seen going in and out look very expensive. Yet the items on sale in the shop are fairly ordinary.”

“You are saying they are dealing in too much expensive furniture?” I asked dubiously. Cas and I had started cases on strange precepts before, but this was in a class of its own.

“I told you it was silly”, Mr. Benezet said quietly, looking embarrassed.

“That is not all”, Mr. Wallace said. “Last week, I was visiting Mrs. Kilbourn at Tiw Bridge, the house on our other side, when a telegram arrived. She opened it before realizing that it should have gone to Thor Bridge instead. She is painfully shy, so I said that I would take it round for her. A maid opened the door, and I explained it to her, so she went to get the butler. Whilst I was there, I could see through to a room at the back – and a man was dismantling a piece of furniture for some reason! The butler was very obviously annoyed at my coming, and didn't even bother to thank me. Just snatched the telegram off me and slammed the door in my face!”

Cas smiled.

“Of course, you read the telegram”, he said.

“Of course!” Mr. Wallace said. “I wrote it down.”

He retrieved a notebook from the writing-desk, and opened it.

“It is a list of five addresses in France, each with a name attached”, he said, showing it to Cas. “I am afraid it means nothing to me.”

“They are quite probably all either furniture makers or vendors”, Cas said. “I know one of them; Marchand's, one of the most exclusive places in Paris, and I know that the French police are more than a little interested in it. It would seem that they are selling the items for the vendors here, presumably at a considerable mark-up. Quality English furniture is always in demand, if it has provenance, of course. I will need to investigate further into this matter, but I have one or two ideas which I shall pursue through my London contacts. In the meantime.... congratulations.”

Both men smiled.

II

We returned to London that evening, and the following day Cas went to find Sergeant Baldur to ask him some questions. I stayed in Baker Street to treat Mr. Lindberg's leg, which he had broken whilst falling out of bed. I also learned the hard way not to ask his wife as to how it had happened. What they say about ignorance being bliss is all too true!

Cas returned just before lunch with the sergeant, who I thought looked truly terrible. It was as if he had not slept for several nights in a row. After joining us for lunch – I noticed how much he ate; the man was clearly ravenous – he turned to my friend.

“Thank you for getting me out of there, sir”, he yawned. “It has been awful these past few weeks, and few of us have gotten any sleep.”

“I can see that”, Cas said. “I have arranged with Inspector Henriksen to 'borrow' you for the day, so you do not need to worry about getting back.”

The sergeant yawned again, and looked at him gratefully.

“What do you need, sir?” he asked.

“Right now, I need you to get some sleep”, Cas said firmly. “You are no good to anyone without some rest.”

“But sir....”

“There is a hot water-bottle in the bed, and you, sergeant, are going to sleep”, Cas said firmly.

He propelled the yawning policeman into his room, and returned a few moments later looking satisfied with himself.

“All well and good”, I said pointedly, “but what are going to do if he is still snoring away when you turn in tonight?”

“I suppose I shall have to sleep with you”, he said blithely.

The look he gave me that accompanied that statement made it quite clear that sleep was unlikely. I gulped, and prayed that the sergeant would wake up. 

Then again.....

+~+~+

Fortunately – or possibly not – Sergeant Baldur woke at just before nine o'clock, just as I was beginning to consider my options for the night ahead. He emerged from Cas' room looking as rumpled as my friend did of a morning, but clearly much more awake.

“Thank you for that, sir”, he said slumping into the fireside chair. “I so needed a rest.”

“Good”, Cas said. “Tell me; how did you come to end up in such a state?”

The sergeant groaned. 

“Winter, over in Paddington”, he said. “There's been a spate of portrait thefts recently from some of the big houses in Middlesex, and his station and ours were set to work out how they were smuggling them out of the country. But he keeps claiming half his staff are off sick or something, so most of the work has fallen on us.”

Cas smiled.

“Still, you may also get the credit if can you solve it”, he said. “When did this spate of robberies begin, pray?”

“About three months ago”, the sergeant said. I started slightly, but fortunately I was not in his line of sight, so he did not notice. “And last week they struck at Lord Charlmont's place, Highmere. He's a personal friend of Colonel Bradford, so the heat is on to solve this.”

“In that case, I may be able to offer some assistance”, Cas said. “Though I would need you to have yourself and several of your men at my disposal at short notice.”

“The lads at the station know you've come through for them, more than once before”, the sergeant said loyally. “Just send us a message, and we'll be there.”

“Excellent!” Cas beamed.

+~+~+

Nothing happened for the next few days except that Cas exchanged messages with our Windsor friends, and seemed content to await developments. They came with a rush when Cas received a telegram one morning at breakfast. Quaffing down his coffee, he rose from the table.

“Damnation!” he swore. “I had expected our friends to come to us, through London. But they have gone the other way.”

“What friends?” I asked, confused. “Where?”

“We need to get to Victoria Station”, he said, frantically writing a note on a scrap of paper. “There is a timetable on the shelf over there, Dean. I need the times of trains to Tonbridge, otherwise we will have to telegraph ahead. And I so want Sergeant Baldur to get the credit for his hard work.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but quickly checked the South Eastern Railway trains to the Kentish town. Cas went to the window and called for a boy, telling him to take the telegram to the nearby office and return in under ten minutes for half a crown (he was always too generous to the local urchins). 

“There is one in ten minutes, and the service runs hourly”, I told him. He relaxed at the news.

“Good”, he said. “Obviously we cannot make that one, but the next one should just about suffice, if the South Eastern Railway performs adequately. Meanwhile we may do justice to the bounteous feast that is Mrs. Lindberg's English breakfast, and still make Charing Cross with time to spare. We may even be lucky enough to receive a further message.”

No more messages materialized as we finished our meal, although when I took out my gun and looked pointedly at Cas, he slowly nodded. We left Baker Street, and a cab took us across a surprisingly traffic-free London, arriving at Charing with twenty minutes in hand. My friend went to the telegraph office, and when he came out again, he was smiling.

“All is well”, he said. “Sandhurst, as I suspected.”

“The Royal Military College?” I asked, confused.

“No, the train station”, he said, explaining precisely nothing. “Ah, I see the cavalry are here.”

We had walked down to the ticket-gate to Platform Four, and Sergeant Baldur and three constables were waiting for us.

“I hope you're right on this”, the sergeant said, looking decidedly nervous. “We received a message from Paddington this morning. Old Winter has gone off on a hot tip that he thinks will lead him straight to the thieves.”

“Well, he cannot get up to much mischief in the wilds of north Hertfordshire”, Cas said mildly. “And Buntingford is renowned for its taverns.”

The sergeant looked at him, shocked.

“Please tell me you didn't”, he said. One of his colleagues failed to stifle a snort of laughter.

“Didn't what?” Cas asked, far too innocently. “That is the danger of anonymous tip-offs. Sometimes you get lucky, sometimes you get to search the house of a man who keeps pet snakes.”

The man was a bastard, I decided, as two of the other constables snorted their laughter. But he was my bastard!

III

The four policemen were slightly shocked when Cas purchased six first-class return tickets for us all, and judging by the way the younger constables spent the first part of the journey examining every aspect of the compartment, it was not something they had ever experienced before (it probably was not). We arrived at the Kentish town precisely on time (mercifully the South Eastern was improving a little of late, ever since its effective merger with its rival, the Chatham) , and Cas warned us as we got off the train that we would be called into action very soon.

“In addition to its services in the area of England from which it takes its name”, he said, “the South Eastern Railway Company had a lone branch that extends all the way to the Berkshire town of Reading. Now, the gentlemen we may or may not meet today are based in Windsor, and I must admit that I fully expected them to undertake the journey they are currently on via London, where I had arranged a diversion that would capture them. The bad news is that they surprised me. The good news is that I was alerted to their change of plans, which is why we are here today.”

“I owe my interest on this case to two gentlemen friends we met on a case some years back, who became curious as to why a furniture shop opposite them suddenly acquired a vast amount of extra business just as new neighbours moved into the area. Now, coincidences do happen, but I did not believe that this was a coincidence. That shop was being used for something - but what?”

He was interrupted by the whistle of a distant train approaching down the line from the west. He quickly pulled us around behind the waiting-room. 

“It may be that they have sent what is on that train by itself”, he said, “but we cannot chance it. I will speak to the guard, and then call you all over if needed. If someone on that train sees four policemen on the platform, there is no knowing how they may react.”

Fortunately the train pulled to a halt by the water-tower, and the fireman leapt out and began the process of refilling the locomotive's water tank. Cas walked over to the guard and chatted briefly to him. At the same time, I noticed a sharply-dressed young alpha leave his first-class carriage and amble along the platform to the luggage-van, and Cas. My friend looked across at me and nodded, and I whispered to the sergeant and his men to follow me. I placed my hand on my gun inside my jacket pocket.

What happened next took only a few seconds, but they seemed to last forever. The sharply-dressed man caught sight of the advancing policemen, and clearly realized that the game was up. He pulled a pistol from beneath his jacket and aimed, not at the policemen but at Cas, who was only a few yards in front of him.

I did not hesitate, but shot him in the head, then again and again until I was out of bullets. 

He was dead. And Tonbridge railway station echoed to the sound of women screaming, babies crying and the gentle susurration of the railway locomotive steaming placidly into the clear blue sky, whilst a man's lifeblood seeped all over Platform Two.

+~+~+

There was the formality of statements, of course, although the fact that the man drawing his weapon first had been witnessed by four officers of the law sped things along somewhat. Cas explained matters to a surprisingly unperturbed stationmaster (one would have thought his station hosted bloody killings on a daily basis!), and a large crate was removed from the luggage-van and deposited on the platform. Eventually the train was allowed to go on its way, and Cas sat down beside me on the bench. I was still shaking.

“Thank you”, he whispered softly. “For saving me. Again.”

“You idiot!” I hissed, fighting back what felt suspiciously like tears. “What am I going to do if you end up killing yourself just because you don't take enough care? Damnation Cas, you know I can't go on without you!”

“We'll talk back home”, he said quietly, as the sergeant approached. “Ah, you have the equipment I asked for. Good. You may find it in your interests to open that crate, sergeant.”

Sergeant Baldur nodded, still eyeing us somewhat warily, and he and his men set to work to lever off the end of the huge crate, which was taller than I was. The sides were eventually folded down on their hinges to reveal a large dark wooden bookcase with cupboards. It was singularly unimpressive, I thought.

“Not a Chippendale, but not far behind”, Cas said. “Worth several hundreds on its own. However, that is not what we came here for.”

He scrambled up onto the top of the ghastly thing that had nearly cost him his life, and fiddled with something until he was able to remove the ornate wooden top. Then he reached down – and when he brought his hand up, there was a small, foot-square portrait in it!

“A concealed space” he grinned. “Even without measuring, I could see the thing did not march up. I can see at least one large painting in there as well, sergeant. If you get two of your men up here when I come down, they can probably extract them all.”

+~+~+

The horrible bookcase contained two large paintings and four small ones. I glared at them all as they lay in the waiting-room, creating an impromptu art gallery.

“Sergeant, I suggest you telegraph the National Gallery, who doubtless have expertise as how to correctly transport these gems”, Cas said. “Then send one of your officers back to the station with your report, and the rest of you should stay here to guard this little haul. You might also want to telegraph your colleagues over in France, and tell them to call in at the destination on the docket here, so they can close down that end of the operation.”

“I will, sir”, the sergeant beamed. “And thanks – for everything!”

“We were glad to help”, Cas smiled. Then he caught the look on my face, and his smile faded.

IV

Our journey back to Baker Street was difficult, to say the least. I was still furious with Cas for risking himself for some ratty furniture and a few old paintings, and he clearly (if belatedly) felt that anger. I sat with my arms folded in the cab all the way from Charing Cross to Baker Street, seething quietly, and once we were inside I stormed upstairs, ignoring the worried looks of Mr. and Mrs. Lindberg as I charged past them. I was tempted to go to my bedroom and try to pretend it had all never happened, but when I heard Cas come through the door behind me and call my name as he quietly closed it, I snapped.

“How could you?” I yelled, not caring who heard me. “Twice in my life I've lost you now, and just as I thought I had you back for good, you go and do something dumb like that!”

“Dean....”

“No, Cas!” I ground out. “Ye Gods, why do you have to do this? Risk your life for people, just to put away some human detritus? Why can't you be like Ben and Bill, living quietly somewhere away from it all.”

“What would you have me do?” Cas said quietly. “God gave me these gifts, Dean to serve my fellow humans. You know what we do can be dangerous.”

He sounded hurt, but I was too angry to care. 

“Of course I bloody do!” I ground out, silently wondering why the dust in the room was making my eyes water. “In two years I'll be fifty, Cas. Five-zero years old! I've known you most of my life, and I can't... I just can't....”

He came and sat down down next to me, and began to slowly remove my clothes. I bit back a comment that sex was not the answer, and he smiled uncertainly at me.

“My meeting with the family the other day did not go well”, he said, slipping off my shirt and running his hands over my chest. I sighed, leaning into his touch despite my anger.

“Some people will never be happy”, I muttered, taking in his scent like some desperate omega. I was still shaking, but a little less than before.

“Father told us that he has rewritten his will.”

I tensed and pulled back, staring at him in alarm. He continued to caress me until I relaxed again.

“And?” I prompted.

“He has added a clause, stating that should any brother try to disinherit one of his siblings, then he loses his own part of the estate”, he said. “Mike and Rafe in particular will know what that means. They will not dare risk moving against us and risk losing everything.”

“He has always been good about us”, I said, as Cas eased my now naked form onto the bed and eased in opposite me. 

“I love you, Dean”, he said simply. “Society may not recognize that yet, but one day it will. And in the meantime, I promise that I will take more care of myself. I love you too much to do otherwise. I am sorry for today.”

I sniffed and pulled him closer. This was wonderful; two middle-aged alphas just holding each other, content in each other's arms.

“I love you, you idiot!” I said with a smile. “I always will. Don't you dare ever leave me, Cas.”

For some reason my mind chose that moment to remind me of Mrs. Moseley's last words to me in London, that Cas would indeed never leave me. For the first time, I dared to hope that might just be true.

+~+~+

Postscript: A raid by Sergeant Baldur's men on the Clewer furniture shop yielded almost all the lost paintings, including (fortunately) all those of Colonel Bradford's friend. The Sigurdsons were found to be the actual operators of the business, presumably thinking that their activities would go unnoticed in such a quiet spot. The sergeant received a commendation for his good work, and he made sure that his four colleagues all received due recognition as well. And there was the added bonus that a certain other north London sergeant was out of commission for a time afterwards, having been bitten by a snake during a raid that turned out to be totally fruitless.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, we hunt for buried treasure! Sort of....


	7. Case 97: Hunteri Heroici (1900)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Six Napoleons'.

I

Even though it was not technically a new century for another twelve months, the year nineteen hundred somehow just felt different. I say that looking back not just with the benefit of hindsight; contrary to what some cynics claim today, everyone knew full well that there would be a further act of German aggression under Kaiser Wilhelm II, and that only his affection for his grandmother, now in her eighty-first year of life, held him back. For now. The nineteenth century had been a British one ever since Trafalgar and Waterloo, but the gathering storm-clouds as we neared the twentieth were ominous indeed.

Though in a sense I had had Cas ever since our first memorable meeting in Oxford some twenty-six (ouch!) years ago, our recent travails over furniture and old friends had definitely changed something in our relationship. Cas seemed much more relaxed and content with life. Sometimes now I would catch him just looking at me, as if he was finding it hard to believe I was his, or that he had come so close to throwing it all away. I would usually blush, and he would quietly take me to the bedroom where he would show me just how much he truly loved me.

It was almost worth getting the stink-eye from Lady Heversham the following day when she saw the huge love-bite he had left on me. She had given a low whistle and muttered something that sounded like "girls these days!" If only she knew!

+~+~+

I noted, but chose not to comment on the fact, that of Cas' copious family, only his sister visited in the months subsequent to my return (I had wondered if Lucifer Novak might call, until I learnt that he and Alfie were out of the country). Mrs. Thompson had more than proved her family wrong in their opposition to her own marriage, her dentist husband now boasting several government ministers and even some minor royalty amongst his client list. 

The second half of 'Ninety-Nine had seen a steady stream of small cases, none of which I deemed worth documenting. I had felt energized in my writings, and had supplied the Strand magazine with four stories from 'Ninety-Seven; 'Fan Fiction', 'Paper Moon', 'Black' and 'Devil's Trap', as well as having yet another book of collected works published. And Cas and I had reached Christmas without anyone (else) trying to shoot at him, which was nice. 

+~+~+

The second week of the new year saw an outbreak of influenza in the capital, and I felt compelled to go to the surgery and offer my services, as they were in danger of being overwhelmed. I tried to persuade Cas to let me sleep alone at this time, telling him that there was always the risk that I and therefore he might get infected, but he flatly refused (I did not like to dwell on the fact that his proneness to acquiring diseases frankly terrified me). Fortunately neither of us succumbed, but it was in the closing days of the outbreak that our next case of interest arose.

It was, fortuitously enough, the first day I was not actually needed at the surgery. I had been planning to go in anyway, and them come back and do some writing if I was truly not required, but whilst I was getting changed Mrs. Lindberg announced that we had a visitor. It was a young lady, dressed in a plain grey smock with some rather startling red shoes. Her card proclaimed her to be a 'Miss Dorothy Baum'.

“Pray be seated, Miss Baum”, Cas smiled in welcome. “How may we be of service?”

The lady – she could have barely been twenty years of age – sat herself down in the fireside chair.

“I am afraid the case I lay before you has no drama or excitement”, she said, in what was unmistakably an American accent. “It is something of a quest, and I am not even supposed to be involved.”

Cas looked at her expectantly.

“Where does this quest take place?” he inquired.

“Langley Hall, in Worcestershire”, she said. “It is in the area known as the Black Country, an industrial group of towns to the west of Birmingham and the south of Wolverhampton. The Hall is, or was, the property of Mr. John Bridges, who died recently. The place itself is relatively small, but its lands are huge, and the property is due to be sold at auction along with its contents at the start of next month. Demand for building land is strong in the area, and it is expected to fetch a high price.”

“This has something to do with who inherits?” I guessed. She nodded.

“That is the strange part”, she said. “I did not know the late Mr. Bridges personally, but my fiancé Caleb – Mr. Golding – is one of five students at Birmingham University who helped him sort his library in his final year before it was donated to the institution. The old man had a passion for buying rare books and manuscripts, and he did not wish to see his collection split up. Caleb always said that he was kind enough, but a little..... eccentric. Just how eccentric, he found out when the will was read.”

“Go on”, Cas urged.

“Mr. Bridges died on the second of February, and the will was read at his funeral on the ninth”, she said. “Everyone expected him to leave everything to charity, as there were several local organizations that he supported. However, the terms were strange, to say the least. He stated that although the charities would get the house and lands, there was also a valuable artifact in the house, and that as payment for their services, the five students who had helped him with the library would each be given the chance to find it. They were each allotted one hour of searching time per day for four weeks, starting on the following day, but if they did not find it during that time, then the solicitor could open a second letter revealing its location, and it would then be sold along with the rest of the property.”

I saw a problem at once.

“Was there no rule against one of the five bringing in outside help?” I asked.

“Only that they cannot bring anyone physically into the house to search alongside them”, she said. “I have not been inside, for that reason. But a clue may have been provided.”

“What?” Cas asked.

“On the twenty-third, two weeks in and half-way through the time, the solicitor announced that each of the five were to be guaranteed something at least for their troubles”, she said. “Each person was handed a bag of coins. Caleb showed me his, and it contained six Napoleons, the French gold coins. They are worth several pounds, he thinks.”

“How does your fiancé feel about your involvement of an outside agency?” Cas asked.

“He is training to be a lawyer”, she said with a smile, “so he is always ready to use a legal loophole if he finds one. But we only have twelve days left, gentlemen. Please say you will help.”

“We will help”, Cas said. “Indeed, we will take a train to Langley this very day, once we have packed.”

II

The journey to Langley Hall involved just one change, at Birmingham's Snow Hill Station. At Langley Green Station we took a cab to Miss Baum's house, she explaining that her fiancé always called on on her after each search. Sure enough, a tall brown-haired young alpha arrived moments later and introduced himself as Mr. Caleb Golding. I frankly did not see what Miss Baum saw in him, but then they do say that love is blind.

I thought of Cas in the morning, and smiled to myself. Then I caught him looking knowingly at me. The man was psychic!

“Who are the other four students involved in the search?” Cas inquired, still giving me a Look. 

“All lawyers, like me”, Mr. Golding said airily. “Tom Preston; bookish boy, but no harm in him. Arianna Banner; aptly named because she's always waving one for women's rights and such nonsense. Ronald Quimby; a young aristo but all right anyway. And of course young Marty Arkle, Dot's fellow countryman, who only got the job because that idiot Winslow fell of a ladder whilst cleaning windows at his mother's house, just after he'd started at the Hall. Marty had a thing for Dot one time, but I got there first.”

Miss Baum blushed.

“You have had two weeks to search the place”, Cas said. “What have you tried so far?”

“What haven't I tried?” the man groaned. “That beak of a lawyer watches us the whole time, though to be fair he also has two men on hand if we need anything heavy lifting or moving. And we have moved everything! Arianna found a hidden passage the second week, but the only thing down there was a ton of dust. I had the shift after her that day, and did she look a sight! And now we have these damned coins!”

“May I see them, please?” Cas asked.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch, shaking out the contents onto the table. The six gold coins shone brightly in the early afternoon sun.

“They've each got marks on them from where they were made, but they don't add up to anything”, he said glumly. “The only word I could make from them is BRAMBRABB, which makes no sense at all!”

Cas nodded.

“May I keep these for a while?” he asked.

“Of course”, the young man said. “I have to be getting back to the university, so I'll see you tomorrow, Dot.”

He kissed his fiancée and left. I thought hard, but said nothing.

+~+~+

“Out with it, Cas!”

Cas looked at me in surprise. We had checked into the Navigation Inn, a tolerable-looking tavern on the main road up to Wolverhampton, with the canal from which it took its name running behind. 

“At this time of evening?” he teased. I gave him my worst glare.

“You know what I mean!” I growled. “You were hiding something when we were at Miss Baum's, and I want to know what.”

“I think that this case may be more difficult that it first appears”, he said. “Would you be able to do something for me tomorrow?”

“Of course”, I said, easily distracted as usual. “What?”

“Go into Birmingham and find out where each of these coins was made, and anything else you can about them”, he said.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I want to go to the University and hunt out the other students on the quest.” 

“How will that help Mr. Golding find the treasure?” I asked.

“If I knew that, I would not need to go to the University and hunt out the other students on the quest”, he said wryly.

“Hunteri Heroici, tackling those terrifying records!” I quipped.

+~+~+

I moaned into the gag, my eyes watering as Cas changed his angle again and thrust into me even harder.

“Your 'hunteri heroici' is looking for his treasure”, Cas ground out, and his cock rubbed lightly against my prostate before pulling away, denying me the relief I craved. 

“Cas!” I whined, though I doubt he heard me. He tweaked both my nipples at the same time, and my cock strained at the cock-ring he had slipped on me during the sweet nothings he had used to distract me. I must have been a sight, but at that moment, my only concern was getting release from this torture one way or another. 

I groaned as I felt Cas insert the vibrator, knowing from experience that because of the angle I was currently pinioned at, it would not reach where I wanted it to. I wiggled my hips uselessly, and he chuckled darkly, before slipping back down the bed. Then I felt his tongue rubbing along the underside of my cock, and I strained hard against the cock-ring. 

“I bought a reinforced one this time, Dean”, he said calmly, as if he was not in the middle of reducing me to a nervous wreck. “I do not think you will break this one.”

And with that he ran his clever tongue over my cock-head, kissing it lightly before suddenly moving away from it and kissing a trail up my chest, which was heaving rapidly. Then without warning he suddenly released me legs which flopped uselessly on the bed – except the suddenly changed angle meant the vibrator hit my prostate full on!

He must have unlocked the cock-ring, because I promptly exploded, and he jerked me off as I came all over him, the bed and the room. I wanted to say something to him about how supremely wonderful that was, how grateful I was that I had him – but I had nothing left. He quietly removed the vibrator, gave us both a quick wipe-down and settled in beside me in the bed, pulling me close to him and enveloping me in his gorgeous scent. Within seconds I was dead to the world.

III

The next day brought a bitter snowstorm, but I made it into the city successfully, and dragged myself round every shop that looked as if it might provide information as to the coins I had in my pocket. By the time I arrived back at the inn I was bitterly cold, and my mood was not helped when Cas came in looking like the abominable snowman, wrapped up to the nines in God alone knows how many layers. I went down for a coffee at once, and he sighed happily as his hands closed around the hot mug.

“Did you find anything useful?” I asked.

“Quite a bit”, he said. “I disguised myself as a visiting professor and talked with the other four quest members. And I sat in the canteen and listened to gossip. Their coffee is atrocious, by the way!”

I smiled.

“Here is a list of the information I got about the coins”, I said, passing it over. “I think I have learned more about coinage today that I ever wanted to know. The odd thing was that, although two of the coins had the letter 'R' on them, one was from Orleans and the other Rome. The two 'BB' ones both came from Strasbourg, the 'A' one from Marseilles and the 'M' one from Toulouse. I suppose it makes sense to the French!”

“They minted some coins in London, if I recall”, Cas said. “But yes. That is indeed informative.”

He seemed to think for a while, then smiled.

“We will go into Birmingham together tomorrow”, he said. “I have a fancy for some artwork.”

I stared at him expectantly, but apparently that was it. God, he was annoying at times! But I loved him anyway.

+~+~+

Fortunately there was a partial thaw overnight (not that I noticed, being wrapped around my own six foot one long human furnace), and the following morning Cas and I took the train back to Snow Hill Station. Once in the city, he wanted to go to a shop that sold paintings; I waited outside, but he was only in there for a moment before he hurried out, and almost dragged me further along the street until we were outside a second, similar shop. I almost bounced off the door as I was pulled unceremoniously inside.

“May I help you gentlemen?”

A small, dapper-looking shop assistant had appeared out of nowhere, as some of them are wont to do. Cas smiled.

“I do not honestly know”, he said. “I am representing a man looking for something, and I think you may have been involved in the hiding of it. I am sure that the person who paid you would have allowed my client to know your involvement, but he may not have extended that courtesy to his representative. Of course, my client could come here themselves tomorrow, but time is of the essence. The work would have been for Langley Hall.”

The assistant smiled.

“Mr. Bridges did say that we could reveal information to one of five people, or their representatives”, he said. “Of course, I would need the name of the person you are representing.”

Cas passed him a folded piece of paper, which he unfolded, read and nodded. He went round behind the counter, and extracted a ledger.

“We provided Mr. Bridges with six pieces of artwork”, he said, making some notes as he talked. “There are the titles of the works in question. It was his intention to give five of them to the five people he set on their current quest, the remaining one being sold.”

“I understand”, Cas said with a smile, taking the paper from him. “Thank you, sir.”

He ushered me out of the shop, and immediately hailed a cab for Snow Hill. I took the paper from him and read what was written on it:

'(The) Battle of Thermopylae'  
'Brutus Alone'  
'HMS Andromeda'  
'Jeroboam And Rehoboam'  
'Thunder and Lightning Over Lindisfarne'  
'Yachts In Southwold Harbour'

Well, it was obvious. I wished!

+~+~+

I assumed, naturally enough, that Cas had the clue he needed to find whatever or wherever the treasure was, but the next day he insisted on visiting the late Mr. Bridges' solicitor, Mr. White, and clarifying certain matters that, apparently, needed clarifying. He then spent the next two days down at the University again. I was mystified; we seemed to be running out of time, and getting nowhere.

On the final day of the quest, the five students, Cas, myself and Miss Baum met Mr. White in the long gallery at Langley Hall. 

“Thank you for all coming”, Cas said. “This has been an interesting case, and the outcome has not been what I expected when I began.”

“You mean you have failed?” Miss Banner said, curling a supercilious lip at us both. I disliked her at once.

“On the contrary, I have succeeded”, Cas smiled. He turned to Mr. White. “If I understand the rules, I am allowed to touch the item provided I am 'signed on' by you as an official helper, which we did the other day?”

“That is correct, sir”, Mr. White said. 

Cas smiled, then walked across to the set of six paintings that I had already recognized from the list provided by the art shop. He picked the third one, presumably 'HMS Andromeda' as it was of an old-time galleon, off the wall and came back. 

And handed it to Mr. Arkle.

IV

“What the hell is going on?” Mr. Golding demanded. “You were working for me!”

“That is incorrect”, Cas said dryly. “I was working for Miss Baum. And when I found during my investigations that you had been having an affair with another woman despite your engagement, I decided that it would be in her best interests if you were not the one to find this.”

“But this is a piece of modern art, sir”, Mr. Arkle protested. 

Cas smiled. 

“I will tell you all a story”, he said. “Mr. Bridges greatly enjoys having you all around to help him catalogue his library, and decides you should have some reward. So he chooses to set you a challenge. A treasure-hunt – except the treasure is exceptionally well-hidden.”

“He employs a Birmingham art-shop to create six new works of art for him”, he went on, “all copies of old paintings, all done to the same size. However, one of the six is slightly different from the others – for instead of a blank canvas, the painting is done on a canvas which has been stretched over an original painting - a masterpiece work of a certain Mr. Reubens.”

They all stared at him in shock.

“From Miss Baum's description of the Hall, I knew when I saw it that there was little chance of the treasure-hunters finding something in a building that size”, he said. “So I assumed the obvious. Two of the hunters might decide to join forces, so they could cover twice the ground. Mr. White confirmed that of the five, three searched each room in turn quite methodically, but two concentrated their searches on half the building – and a different half for each.”

He turned to Miss Banner.

“You might care to know that the man you passed when out walking with Mr. Golding the other evening was me”, he said sternly. “And I saw.....

His words were interrupted by Mr. Golding, who suddenly surged across the room at Mr. Arkle. I moved to try to stop him, but his target was not the fellow student but the painting, which he slashed at with a knife he produced from nowhere. The rest of us dragged him away, but the painting was ruined. Cas went to the door, and returned with three burly policemen.

“Not worth much now, is it?” Mr. Golding snarled. “Sorry, Dot. It was you or the money. You came second.”

The slap she gave him echoed around the room. I grinned.

“Actually she came first”, Cas smiled. “Thank you for establishing your guilt beyond reasonable doubt, sir. But before you go....”

He walked back to where the five paintings remained, and took off another one, presumably 'Thunder And Lightning Over Lindisfarne' from the dark blue skies, which he handed to Mr. Arkle.

“The shop that did this assure me that, once the second canvas has been carefully taken off, the work underneath will fetch in excess of one thousand pounds”, he said smoothly. “Oh, and the picture you destroyed, Mr. Golding – that was the one intended to be left for you! Gentlemen, please escort Mr. Golding and Miss Banner to the cells.”

The two students were dragged noisily away. I turned to my friend.

“All right”, I demanded. “How did you know?”

“I must say that I rather like the late Mr. Bridges”, Cas said. He gave you all a clue, yet you failed to see it.”

“The coins?” I asked. “You mean “BRAMBRABB? That meant something?”

I noticed at this point that Mr. Arkle had abandoned his painting and moved to comfort a stunned Miss Baum. I thought it advisable not to comment.

“It meant nothing”, Cas said. But if you take the initial letters of the cities where the coins were produced, you get two 'S's, an 'M', a 'T';, an 'O' and an 'R'. Rearrange those letters, and you get the word 'storms'. Only one of the pieces of art Mr. Bridges ordered had stormy skies, so that was the one that concealed the treasure.”

He turned to Miss Baum.

“I am sorry this did not turn out quite as you may have hoped”, he said gently, “but it was better that you found out the truth about Mr. Golding now rather than later.”

She moved even closer to Mr. Arkle, who seemed to have unsurprisingly few objections.

“What made you even suspect that?” I asked.

“When he talked about the other students, Miss Banner was the only one he referred to casually by her first name”, Cas explained. “And she did not seem the sort of person to attract that sort of familiarity, unless there was more to it. That was why I spent so long at the University. I protect my clients, from everything.”

+~+~+

Neither Mr. Golding nor Miss Banner went to jail for their actions, although Mr. Golding's father was so disgusted by his son's actions that he disowned him, forcing him to drop out of university. I believe the two of them later emigrated to Africa, as if that continent did not have enough problems. Miss Baum returned to America with Mr. Arkle when his course ended, but not before sending us a handsome framed gold Napoleon, as a memento of our case. It was pure coincidence that it was one minted in Paris, the City of Lovers.

Yes it was!

+~+~+

Our next adventure would be truly a Labour of Hercules, as we tackled the Conk-Singleton forgery case.....


	8. Case 98: The Benders (1900)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as 'the Conk-Singleton Forgers'.

I

Many and varied were the people who called at Baker Street, requesting our services. Some appeared to believe that a personal appeal would make Cas more likely to take their case, which was actually not so. He read every pleading letter sent to him, and weighed the requests with the same impartial judgement he reserved for those who came to our door (indeed, some people's personal approaches had quite the opposite effect to the one they probably intended!). However, on this cold March morning in the year nineteen hundred, a person arrived who was certain of a warm reception – even if we had thought him to be several hundred miles away.

It was Sergeant Valiant Henriksen, the nephew of our friend the chief inspector. And whom we not seen since he had embroiled us in the Addleton Tragedy, some six years past.

“I'm so relieved to have caught you both!”, he said. “This is terrible!”

“What is?” Cas asked, sitting down. The sergeant did likewise, though it took him longer to fold his long limbs into our fireside chair, built only for regular-sized homo sapiens. 

“Uncle Vic”, he said glumly. “He's about to be ruined. And there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop it!”

+~+~+

“I owe this to young Peters”, he began. “He was a constable alongside me when we met at Reigate all those years ago, and he moved to London before I went north. We kept in touch however, and he alerted me to what was going on. My uncle said nothing about it.”

“Go on”, Cas urged.

“Just after the new year, several London stations were working on a major case”, the sergeant went on. “Peters' station was one of them, and he was seconded to work at Mirabelle Street for the duration of the case. He was warned not to discuss it with anyone, but when this all went down, he sent me a telegram.”

I said nothing. Such practices were common in any large organization; indeed, probably the best way to ensure something was widely known was to insist on keeping it a secret. Those at the top never learnt.

“At the end of last year, forged bank-notes began appearing in parts of the East End”, our visitor continued. “Nothing unusual perhaps, but these were high quality forgeries, pound and ten-bob notes. Normally these people go for the larger denominations, which is how we tend to find them. The first one was only spotted because a pawnbroker in Stepney happened to be a coin-collector on the side, and he knew what to look for. Someone has printed loads of the things, and the Met thought they had it easy when they nabbed a set of plates during a raid on a drugs den in Whitechapel. The name on the back was 'Conk-Singleton'.”

“I am guessing that it was not that easy”, Cas smiled.

“The only person of that name turned out to be a seventy-year-old collector of rare stamps, slightly deaf, half-blind and with one leg, who lives in Muswell Hill”, the sergeant snorted. “He nearly suffered a nervous breakdown when they questioned him about it. No, he clearly had nothing to do with the whole thing. It was what happened next that was so damning.”

“What?” I asked.

“They had another lead, and were building up to a raid on a warehouse on the docks”, the sergeant said. “There's a family of known criminals down there, the Benders, and we were sure that they were behind the whole thing. Then Uncle Vic was travelling back from Buckingamshire to Scotland Yard, and he got attacked on leaving the train. There were four of them, and they managed to get away with his brief-case. The raid on the warehouse fell flat, but there had clearly been something going on in there recently. Now everyone is saying that he faked the attack, and that he tipped off the Benders for a cut.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” I said testily. “Who would be dumb enough to believe that?”

“It gets worse”, the sergeant said morosely. “The only reason I found out about it was because Peters told me someone had leaked the story to the Daily Chronicle. They wanted to publish, but the force obtained an injunction against them. However, an appeal is being heard on Friday, and he thinks they will lose. It will be all over the weekend papers! And the most damnable thing of all? Father was just about to be bumped!”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“A last-minute promotion, so the recipient can retire on a better pension”, Cas explained. “To superintendent, in his case.”

The sergeant nodded. 

“He had less than six months left”, he said glumly. “I can't think who would want to destroy him like this, but someone talked to that rag.”

“The Hydra”, Cas mused. “As fast as one suppresses one version of the story, two more appear to take its place. And we have but three days. It will not be easy.”

+~+~+

Sergeant Henriksen had been able to come to us thanks to the generosity of his own Inspector Collins, who whilst unable to grant him regular leave, had found some police documents that had to be immediately couriered to the capital on the Glasgow sleeper. Unfortunately that meant he would have to return to his base in Kendal that same afternoon, but Cas promised to keep him informed of any developments.

“We have precious little to go on”, Cas said. “Let us make use of what we have. Someone wishes to discredit Henriksen, and force him to retire early. Therefore we are looking at someone who would benefit from his leaving now, rather than in six months' time.”

“We are going to see Sergeant Baldur”, I guessed.

“Correct”, he smiled. “I wish to know if there is anyone for whom our friend's forced departure would be of interest. That may even be the person who has started these vile calumnies.”

“What about the attack?” I asked.

“That worries me”, Cas said. “Not just for the safety of our friend, but because of what it implies.”

“Which is?” I asked. He turned to me.

“Only someone within the police service would have known that he was carrying case files that day”, he said grimly. “We have another bent copper, and given that the attack was by four people, most likely more than one!”

II

Sergeant Baldur welcomed us to the station. His was not one of those who had been seconded to the forgery case, but of course he had heard rumours. Though he did not know of Henriksen's involvement of course; had he done so, he would have informed us immediately.

“I cannot believe they are trying to force the old man out!” he said angrily. “I thought we were supposed to be the side of justice!”

“You can help us with one aspect of this case”, Cas said. “We need to know who would most likely replace Henriksen, both should he retire now, and in a few months' time.”

The sergeant thought for some time.

“They appointed two new superintendents last year”, he said eventually, “which was quite unusual. I don't know the chief inspectors that well; they're two ranks above me, so I rarely see them. Five applied for the first post last year, and the remaining four for the second, so I suppose you would be looking at the three who got rejected both times.”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “Tell us about them.”

“Giles Montacute, an alpha based at Goodge Street”, he began. “He'd probably be quite good at it, as he loathes walking the streets but loves the paperwork. Takes all sorts, I suppose. He's what you would call a safe pair of hands, but his arrogant attitude rubs those above him up the wrong way. He's getting on a bit, so he may be thinking he's not got many chances left.”

“Motive”, I muttered sagely.

“Then there's Adrian Wallis up in Harrow”, the sergeant continued. “Your stereotypical alpha; 'Hadrian's Wall' is his nickname, because he's thick and immovable, plus he thinks more public executions Roman-style would deter the criminal classes. Possibly a good choice amongst coppers if those at the top wanted to be seen to be Taking Positive Action! But he's also very vocal about betas and omegas knowing their place, and there are one or two liberals on the selection committee nowadays who probably take against that.”

“Lovely!” I muttered. 

“And last there's Jason Pollock over at Paddington. A real high-flyer and a beta, but despite that – yes, I know it's old-fashioned, but you know what large organizations are like – he still made sergeant in record time, and was almost as quick to reach inspector and chief inspector. He's under forty, and the youngest of the three, so he's got plenty of time left. I half expected him to get the second post, over in the Minories, but it seemed that that lazy blighter Ormerod had better connections. Or those rumours about him sleeping with one of the omegas on the committee were true after all!”

“Interesting”, Cas said. “Of course one of them stands out. Unfortunately I rather think I shall have to call on the services of an expert in this instance, but needs must.”

Not Balthazar, I prayed silently. I did not deserve to suffer as well.

+~+~+

Cas called at the nearest telegraph office to summon help from whoever, then we set off to Henriksen's house. The burly policeman looked shattered from recent events, I thought, and he still bore some of the marks of the attack. He took us out into the garden, and we all sat down.

“I am doing what I can, my friend”, Cas said. “Though I was a little surprised that I had to hear of your troubles from your nephew rather than your good self.”

“Val came down to see you?” he asked, surprised.

“He is concerned”, Cas said. “Unfortunately his leave was only for the day, so he could not come here as well as see us. Tell me, what did they offer you?”

The chief-inspector balked.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Come, Victor”, Cas said firmly, “I know that you would have come to me to help clear your name had not they warned you not to. An offer was made, and you accepted it. What was it?”

I thought for a moment our friend was going to continue to deny it, but then he visibly slumped. 

“Resignation once the case breaks, retirement at my current level, and the promise of a review some months down the line that would clear my name and include compensation”, he said grimly.

“They bought you off!” I said angrily.

“Doctor, I have a family to support”, he said testily.

“And I suppose that they also threatened to move against your nephew if you turned down their 'generous offer'”, Cas said. “To think these are the people responsible for law and order in this city! I will not allow it!”

“You cannot stop rumour”, Henriksen said with a grimace. “And no matter what you do, people will talk.”

“Then we shall give them something to talk about”, Cas said firmly. “Question. What documents were you carrying when you were attacked.”

“Nothing relating to the Conk-Singleton case”, the policeman said. “I did go to Marlow to interview a man who claimed to know something, from a tip-off at one of the other stations. He said he would only speak to me, but when I got there, it was a false address. And now everyone thinks I lost the documents as a result.”

Cas stared at him for a moment before continuing. 

“Why were you put in charge of the case?”

“What?” Henriksen looked surprised. I was surprised too; the question seemed a little insulting.

“Something of that magnitude usually attracts a superintendent at the very least”, Cas said. “If not a chief superintendent. Yet they put you in charge. Why?”

“Because they did not want to draw attention to the investigation”, he said.

“Epic fail there!” I muttered. Cas shot me a look.

“Victor”, he said, not looking at the chief-inspector, “Is there anything else you would like to tell us?”

“Not that I can think of”, he said, a little too defensively.

“Very well”, Cas said, standing up. “Doubtless we will inform you of any developments. Good day.”

He seemed suddenly formal with someone we knew so well. I hurried after him as we left.

“What was all that about?” I asked curiously.

“He lied to us”, Cas said. “He knows a lot more than he admitted. And he is prepared to sacrifice himself for his family. Unfortunately I am not going to let him.”

“Unfortunately?”

“For the men responsible”, he said grimly. “I will ruin them, and take great pleasure in so doing!”

III

I knew Cas well enough to realize that this case was weighing heavy on him. Which meant, inevitably, that there would have to be sacrifices on my behalf. Honestly, the things I did for love!

We dined that evening in a sombre quiet, and I took the unusual step of taking a shower before bedtime, claiming I felt a little tired from the day's efforts. Fortunately there was a little-used door between the bathroom and Cas' bedroom, and I slipped quietly into the latter, undressed myself and awaited him. I doubted he would be long, and indeed barely fifteen minutes later he came through the door.

And stopped stone dead. I was laid out naked on the bed, with all our various sex toys scattered around within reach. He looked at me in surprise.

“You need this tonight”, I said quietly. “Free rein. Whatever you want, Cas. I am your mate, and I want to make you happy.”

For once I actually thought he might cry, but he bit back the tears and came over to me, undoing his shirt as he walked.

“Is this a good idea?” he said, sounding uncertain. “This case.... I am feeling very raw, Dean. I may be rough.....”

“I do not care!” I said firmly. “I love you, and if you are unhappy, then I am unhappy. Take me, Cas. Any which way you want.”

He seemed to pull himself together, and finished undressing. Then he gestured for me to turn onto my front and stretch out my limbs, which he tied to the four corners of the bed. I was totally at his mercy, and he clambered silently on top of me before positioning himself at my entrance.

“You prepared yourself”, he whispered.

“I didn't want to wait”, I whispered back.

He eased slowly inside me, barely moving until he was fully sheathed, and he held himself there for what seemed like an eternity. Normally I would have begged him to move at that point, but tonight I held myself back. Tonight was just for Cas. Just for the man I loved.

Finally he began to move, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed, until he was hammering into me whilst his hand reached out and began to jerk me off. I whined, and he seemed to freeze.

“Dean?”

“For God's sake, keep going!” I ground out.

He picked up the pace again, and without warming he was coming inside of me. I myself came just seconds later, my body shuddering beneath his pinioned weight as he sank down on top of me. This was where I would normally ask to be untied, but not tonight. Tonight I was Cas', to do with what he willed. And despite the wet patch beneath me and my aching overstretched limbs, I was loving it.

+~+~+

I woke to find myself untied and with everything cleared away, no evidence of the passion of the night before. Well, apart from my still-aching muscles, which protested violently every time I moved. Cas must have heard my awakening, for moments later he was in the room with me, a steaming coffee placed on the bedside table whilst he massaged some life back into my shattered forty-eight-year-old body, whispering quiet thanks and praises as he did so. I smiled goofily up at him, and wondered if I would be capable of anything that day.

“I received two telegrams this morning”, he told me, once I was able to sit up (just) and drink my coffee. The cup seemed unusually heavy, I thought.

“Who are they from?” I asked, leaning into him. It was odd, my being naked whilst he was almost fully-clothed, but just now I did not care.

“This is from Balthazar”, he said, waving one of them. “I wished to know certain things about the work colleagues of one of our candidates for Henriksen's job.”

“You think one of them was behind it?” I asked.

“Of course”, he said. “Was it not obvious?”

“No!” I protested. “How?”

“One of the reasons behind Henriksen's reluctance to talk was the weapon used against him”, Cas said. “People may think the police truncheon is just a stout stick, but it leaves a distinctive mark to those who know. He knew that at least one of his own was involved. Hence the threat to his son.”

“But that would be stupid!” I protested. “A doctor examining the injuries would report the matter.”

“Not a police doctor”, Cas said flatly. “This goes higher up than we thought. Someone of high office, capable of organizing this framing of a good officer. Unfortunately for them, their best-laid plans are about to go awra'.”

“Who was the other telegram from?” I asked. He sipped his coffee, and sighed happily.

“Mr. Marcus Crowley”, he said. “I decided it was time to cash in one of my two favours. He thinks my price is rather high, but even though he is a criminal, he is also a man of honour. I rather think today is going to be interesting!”

I glared at him, then winced. Moving my head quickly was not yet advisable, apparently.

+~+~+

We took a cab to Sergeant Baldur's station – a very painful, very long ride - and Cas went in briefly before returning alone and telling the cab-driver to take us to Henriksen's house. Which was a long distance away, worse luck. The chief-inspector was tending some plants on the front garden and was reluctant to come with us, but Cas eventually persuaded him. The driver then took us to a quiet back-street in Limehouse that was, frankly, unwelcoming, at least judging from the speed at which he took off once he had been given his fare. It took some time for the dust to die down.

“Why have you brought me here?” the chief-inspector said dully. 

“Oh, you know, just wandering around”, Cas said airily, with a nonchalance that was several miles beyond believable. He crossed the road to where a warehouse with grimy windows backed onto the road, with a stack of boxes by one of the windows. “I wonder what could possibly be in here?”

He clambered up on the boxes and peered through the window, though I doubted that he could see much. He came down with a smile, however.

“Dear me, chief-inspector”, he said innocently. “It seems like there are people inside this building undertaking some sort of forgery. How very dreadful. I think you should call for back-up at once.”

His voice was flatter than East Anglia. Henriksen looked at him suspiciously. 

“One of you could go to the nearest telegraph office”, he suggested. 

“We could”, Cas agreed. “Or we could call for help, and hope that a spare police officer appears out of thin air.” He cupped his hands round his mouth. “Help.”

In terms of calls for help, that ranked somewhere below pathetic. Despite that, Sergeant Baldur promptly appeared from the nearby alley with two of his constables. 

“We heard your call for help, sir”, he said, with what was a commendably straight face. “I have eight other men, five round the front ready to burst in, and three at the only other exit. Let's get 'em!”

He blew hard on his whistle, and there was the sound of a door being smashed in from somewhere nearby. Moments later, a large and untidily-dressed man burst through the door we had been standing by and ran straight into Henriksen, Sergeant Baldur easily slipping the cuffs on his whilst he was still stunned. The chief inspector smiled.

“Well well, Charlie Bender!” he grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! And I bet Bert and Alf aren't all that far away, either!”

“Want a lawyer!” the thug groused. “And I 'aint saying nothin'!”

“True”, the sergeant grinned. “Save your explanation about the presses and all those fake notes for the judge. They don't get many good laughs in their line of work!”

He hustled the man back through the door he had entered by, and threw him down to lie with his three confederates, the first of whom was already being manhandled out to the waiting police-van we could see through the open main door. 

“Amazing”, Cas said flatly. “Chief Inspector Henriksen, you and Sergeant Baldur seem to have found the forgers who have been polluting the tills of London for months. I am sure your superiors will be incredibly grateful that you had the amazing foresight to act on the anonymous tip-off you received today. How fortunate that there are police officers like you that us simple members of the public can trust.”

He stared meaningfully at the chief inspector, who chuckled.

“Thank God you were never a criminal, Novak!” he smiled. “London would have been yours for the taking!”

IV

It says something for the modern age that the capture of the Conk-Singleton forgers was on all the papers across London by that same afternoon, when Cas told me that we would be paying a call on Colonel Bradford, then still Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force. The old gentleman welcomed us, although of course he knew not the true extent of our involvement in the case. There was a tall and somewhat reedy blond beta in the office with him, a superintendent from his markings, who looked less than thrilled to see us. Probably another suit who thought consulting detectives were the devil's work, I thought acidly.

“It is fortunate that I know I can always trust people like Chief Inspector Henriksen”, Cas said with a smile. “I shall miss him, though at least he steps down on a high note.”

“Well, we shall certainly give him the send-off he deserves”, the colonel said. “Oh, I should have introduced you; this is Superintendent Miles Carton. Was there something you particularly wished to see us about, Mr. Novak? You did request his presence.”

I caught a faint flicker of alarm on the superintendent's face.

“I am rather afraid there was”, Cas said. “It is indeed good that some dangerous criminals have been removed from the streets today – but dangerous criminals come in all shapes and sizes. And even disguises. Do they not, superintendent?”

His voice had suddenly acquired a menacing tone. The tall policeman looked at him in surprise.

“I suppose so, sir”, he said uncertainly. 

“For example”, Cas said, “there was the curious case of why poor Henriksen was, as you say in your line of work, 'fitted up'. A very thorough job, but one which may cause the force no end of problems in the days to come.”

“Fitted up?” the colonel asked. “I don't understand.”

“I am very much afraid that I am going to somewhat mar your moment of triumph, colonel”, Cas said. “You see, you have a major problem at one of your stations, and you are about to lose a whole host of officers as a result.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Henriksen was attacked on his way back from Marlow to Victoria”, Cas said, “I asked myself that old legal question. Cui bono? - who benefits? Three chief inspectors stood to gain promotion if Henriksen was forced out when he was; six months' delay, and other rivals might have appeared on the scene. I focussed immediately on Mr. Jason Pollock at Paddington, because his was the only patch through which Henriksen's journey would have taken him. And because a certain reliable source of mine told me that that was where the message that sent Henriksen to Marlow was 'handed in'.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” the superintendent said shortly. “Pollock is a good man.”

“You would know”, Cas said quietly. “He is your nephew.”

The colonel slowly turned and looked at the superintendent. It was not a nice look.

“Miles”, he said slowly, “the rules about divulging familial relations are quite clear. Is Pollock your nephew?”

“He is the son of the superintendent's older sister Patricia, who married a William Pollock”, Cas said. “I am afraid, colonel, that it gets much worse than the non-divulging of blood ties.”

“Go on”, the colonel said heavily, still eyeing his superintendent balefully. 

“Chief Inspector Pollock has, I am told, his own little clique of constables at the station”, Cas said. “Four of them, disguised of course, lay in wait for Henriksen outside Paddington Station, knowing as many in the force do that he disfavours the underground. It was their singular misfortune that one of them, who was meant merely to run off with the brief-case, was caught by Henriksen for a moment, and chose to lash out with his truncheon.”

He took a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.

“There are the names of the officers involved”, he said. 

“How did you find out?” the colonel demanded.

“We all have our secrets, colonel”, Cas smiled. “And of course, our connections. Do we not, superintendent?”

Mr. Carton balked. “What?” he said, pushing his hair back out of his eyes.

“I spoke with Mrs. Victor Henriksen”, Cas said. “You were the person who called at the house, not knowing that she was in the garden next door, and heard you threaten both her husband and her family. And you were the person who started those malicious rumours about my friend.”

“Miles!” the colonel snapped.

“I am sure, of course, that the Metropolitan Police Force, like all large organizations, would prefer this matter to just go away”, Cas said. “Any sort of publicity is going to detract from the rosy glow the public is feeling right now, with the guarantee that the pound in their pocket really is a pound. It is all rather ironic, really?”

“Ironic?” the colonel asked. “How, pray?”

“That this story started with someone looking as if they were about to be forced to resign from the police service, and it ends with someone actually resigning. Six people, if we include the station doctor, who was also involved.”

Cas stared pointedly across the table at the two men.

“On my desk, by sunset”, the colonel said grimly.

The superintendent nodded, gave us both a hate-filled glare and left. 

+~+~+

“To coin a Herculean metaphor, it went from the Hydra to the Augean Stables”, I remarked, as we slumped into our chairs a few days later in the warmth of our Baker Street rooms.

“How so?” Cas asked.

“Well, you destroyed the Hydra like Hercules, finding and removing the original head”, I said. “But like the Augean Stables, you prevented the papers from saying what they were going to about Henriksen by sweeping it all away with the twin rivers of Truth and Justice.”

He just stared at me.

“I am educated”, I said stiffly.

“But I love you anyway!” he grinned.

Memo to self: keep something handy to throw at Cas for when he is even more irritating than usual. 

+~+~+

Next, a curious case involving iron and zinc.....


	9. Case 99: 99 Problems (1900)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished; mentioned elsewhere as ‘the coiner captured when Cas detected zinc and iron filings in his cuffs’.

I

I recall that was feeling particularly pleased with myself as I returned to Baker Street that fine April morn. My latest book of Cas’ adventures was selling even faster that the most optimistic predictions of my publisher, and I had come fresh from spending part of my hard-earned gains. Well, writing was hard work, contrary to what many people thought. And there was a most private shop just off Baker Street, called rather quaintly That Shop, whose recent advent had made our nightly encounters even more interesting as of late.....

Damnation! My good mood evaporated like the morning dew when I recognized the carriage of Mr. Balthazar Novak parked outside our house. Fortunately, only seconds later the lounge-lizard himself hurried out of the front door, and the vehicle sped away as I slowly approached. I braced myself internally; Cas endured his elder brother’s company as a necessary evil in his service to the country, but he did not like it at all. I wondered just how ruffled the angel would be when I made it home.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Very ruffled, as things turned out. I was barely through the door before he was on me, and I noticed with some concern that he was again trying to scent me. He usually only did that when he was upset – he usually felt it was demeaning to another alpha, despite my reassurances that I loved it (which I really did) - so I gently calmed him down and led him to the couch. Sexy times could wait till later; my mate’s well-being came first. And besides, my doctor's bag contained some definitely non-medical items for our evening in.  
   
As it was nearly noon, I sent a request down to Mrs. Singer to ask if she could produce one of her wonderful late breakfasts, with extra bacon for Cas. She, probably guessing that our recent visitor had gone down like a lead balloon, sent back quickly that she would do so, and that it would be ready in around half an hour or so. That gave me time to calm my mate down and find out exactly what his brother had done to upset him this time.  
   
Cas drew a deep breath.  
   
“Balthazar wishes me to investigate a diplomatically sensitive case concerning a coiner”, he said at last.  
   
I nodded, though I did not see why such a request would have upset Cas so much.  
   
“What else has happened?” I asked gently.  
   
He looked up at me, and I could see that he was close to tears.  
   
“Mother and Father were away in Scotland all last month”, he said. “Whilst they were gone, they left Michael in charge of the house. He had my bedroom completely repainted, and threw out everything I had in there. It was only memories, but……”  
   
I bit back my anger, wanting nothing more than to hunt down Michael Novak and make him pay for that act of wanton cruelty. Cas had not had that room changed since he was twelve years of age, and I knew how much he loved knowing it was still there, a reminder that he was truly family despite his blood. Now it was gone, destroyed by his own brother.  
   
“Mother is absolutely furious!” Cas said with a watery smile. “She has told him that the room will be returned to exactly as I had it, and ordered Father to hunt down all the things that were thrown out. And she had deducted the cost of all that from Michael's allowance, and banned him from the house for three months. His wife is far from happy with him as well.”

“He deserves everything he gets!” I growled. “Whatever he may think of you and your life choices, his actions were indefensible.”  
   
Cas smiled up at me. Physically he was only a little shorter than myself, but at times of stress he tended to curl up into himself, and I could more easily wrap my larger frame around him. We stayed sitting there until the bell rang, signifying the imminent arrival of our breakfast-come-dinner.  
   
+~+~+

Cas' eyes widened as he saw what I was taking out my bag, and his already impressive erection somehow managed to increase still further. It was something that looked at first like a long rubber condom, except that it had a lock-cap at the open end.

“Is..... that what I think it is?” he asked, softly.

“It is”, I said, blushing. “I saw it in a, um, magazine the other week, and ordered it from That Shop. I collected it this morning.”

He stared at me incredulously. The ORMeRod (Omega Release Mechanistic Rod) was basically an ultra-thin rubber condom, which an alpha could wrap around his cock before pleasuring his omega mate. Once he had come, the base would then be locked, and the seed would spill out every time the omega moved, through tiny holes along its length. It was more than enough for any man to take, except of course that the staid Victorians, who most definitely were not, would often add other things first, such as ginger. That would leave the omega with the rod inside of them in agony every time they moved the following day. Of course I was an alpha, so my channel was significantly tighter than the average omega's.

I held up the small vial of ginger that I had purchased from the grocery store (nothing was secret these days; the shop assistant had openly smirked at me!), and he gasped.

“Dean!”

“I want this”, I said firmly. “I want you, Cas. I want to feel you inside me all day tomorrow. I love you.”

He looked almost ready to break down in tears at my actions, but instead guided me down on the bed, and most graciously allowed me to give him a most thorough blow-job before starting to prepare me. Except that, unusually, he lined the rod with some ginger before rolling it over his cock and inserting the whole thing inside of me. I moaned in ecstasy, but when he hesitated it changed to a growl, and had I been capable of movement I would have pulled him inside of me.

“Patience is a virtue, beloved!” he teased. Had I been capable of those tricky things called words I would have managed a cutting reply, but I had to settle for another moan as he bottomed out, his own moans at the sensitivity of the spice rubbing against his erection cutting across mine. Thank the Lord that our rooms were so isolated from everyone else's at 221B!

It felt odd to feel him come like this, muffled by the rubber as he was. He eased gently out, keeping me raised up so his come could not follow, and added a copious amount of ginger before sealing the rod shut. Then, using that inhuman strength of his, he gently slipped under me whilst moving my shattered body on top of his own, supporting my greater weight with ease.

“I love you so much”, he whispered to me once we were under the sheets together. “I know I do not tell you that often enough, Dean, but you are my life. You are my very reason for being. Thank you so much.”

I smiled into his shoulder, barely noticing the heat being generated inside of me. Besides, I had something much hotter, for which I would be eternally grateful.  
   
II  
   
“The case is a rather odd one”, Cas said the following morning. Mrs. Singer’s crispy bacon had worked its magic, and we had cuddled (I am not ashamed to admit that) for the best part of an hour before he felt ready to discuss the case his irritating brother had brought, along with the news of his family’s actions. “It concerns three houses along East Smithfield, near both the Royal Mint and the Tower itself; numbers 97, 99 and 101.”  
   
I nodded, and even that simple action caused the rod inside of me to shift slightly. I had made the mistake of sitting down whilst washing that morning, and the resultant surge of ginger had made me come almost at once. My eyes watered; just how much ginger had Cas put inside that thing?  
   
“Number 97 is home to Mr. Dorin Albu, an alpha and one of the most prominent Romanians living in our capital city”, Cas said, his eyes twinkling at my distress. “He is the reason behind the diplomacy element; the position of his country in the forthcoming European conflict is as yet unclear, so we do not wish to upset him if we can avoid it. Unless of course he turns out to be the guilty party, in which case Balthazar will be really quite annoyed.”  
   
I silently hoped for just such an outcome.  
   
“Number 99 is most probably the scene of the coiner’s operations”, Cas went on. “Unfortunately the house is split into three parts, and each is occupied by a potential suspect. In the basement we have Mr. Robin Trent, a beta clerk who works at the London City and Midland Bank in St. Paul’s. He has a somewhat dubious past; he was once married, and his wife died in suspicious circumstances, although nothing was ever proven. He benefited greatly from a life insurance policy he had taken out on her just two months prior.”  
   
“And he works with money, so he would know how it is made”, I offered.  
   
“On the ground floor we have Mr. Sean Davies, single, also a beta and with definite links to Irish nationalist groups. Who, of course, are always in need of money. He does casual labour here and there, and Balthazar thinks the amount he spends is more than can be accounted for by such an existence.”  
   
I nodded. “The first floor?” I asked.  
   
“Occupied by the Marklands, a newly-married couple recently arrived from the United States”, Cas said. “Jehu Markland, an alpha, owns two businesses, which he purchased shortly after coming here but does not take any part in the running of. His wife Carly is pregnant with their first child.”  
   
“They must have had money to be able to afford to buy a whole business, let alone two”, I said.  
   
“An inheritance in their homeland”, Cas said. “Or so they claim. Balthazar is investigating that.”  
   
“And number 101?” I asked.  
   
“It is owned by a middle-aged alpha called Mr. Sebastian Gold”, Cas said. “Separated from his wife, though apparently it was because of her behaviour, not his. It was his brother, who was visiting, who reported the suspicious noises next door to his home. Mr. Gold confirmed that, and more.”  
   
“What sort of goings-on?” I asked.  
   
“Strange smells in the basement, which adjoins Mr. Gold’s own”, Cas said. “He suspected at first that it was something wrong with the pipes, but he claimed that he heard banging coming from next door, though he could not say from which floor. I suspect that one of the people in that street is a coiner.”

“I would have thought that there would be more money in faking notes, like the Benders did”, I observed.

“In this case, I suspect that there may be a reason for that particular choice”, Cas said. “The problem will be in identifying which of the people is the coiner, and therefore the guilty party. A false accusation, especially if it involves Mr. Albu, could be disastrous.”

I nodded at that. The rod moved again, and my eyes watered.

“So I thought we could drive over to the area right now, and see what we can see”, Cas said airily.

I stared at him in horror. East Smithfield had to be at least five miles away, and all that distance in a bumpy cab on London's crowded roads, with the rod assaulting my insides at every bump. He would not be so cruel....

“Tomorrow”, he added with a smirk. I pouted.

“That was mean!” I said accusingly.

“I think your ginger will be all used up by dinner, based on the instruction booklet I read before you got up this morning”, he remarked. “So after dinner, I think it's my turn.”

Yes, he was going to kill me through sex. Well, we all had to die sometime!

+~+~+

The following day we made our way to East Smithfield, which turned out to be the main road leading east out of the City from the Tower itself. That ancient building always made my blood run cold, and I thought of the many people who had been done to death within its grim walls. It still loomed over the area, as it had for some eight centuries now, though I was pleased to see that Sir John Barry's recently-opened bascule/suspension bridge next to it seemed to be drawing as much if not more attention.

I had expected the area to be poor quality housing, as with much of the East End, but it turned out that numbers 81 through to 111 were a run of early Victorian houses at the Tower end of the road, bordered to the east by a rather ugly yellow-bricked factory. All had however clearly seen better days, and two had signs outside stating that they were 'To Let', one of which was number 95, next to the Romanian diplomat's house.

The quality of the area was not at all improved by our having to meet Mr. Balthazar Novak there, especially after the news he had brought Cas the day before. Cas very pointedly held my hand as he approached, so tightly that it actually hurt, but I said nothing. He needed me right now, and I loved him enough to overlook a little pain. Besides, he had clearly suffered a little himself on the cab-ride here, our having used up the remainder of the ginger the evening before.

III

“This is not good, Cas...tiel”, Balthazar Novak said, saving himself only narrowly by avoiding his brother's hated nickname. “The local police sent someone round just to check up on the house yesterday, and the idiot actually questioned our diplomat friend as well. The Romanian ambassador has already put in a complaint.”

“Diplomats are regrettably above the law”, Cas said, frowning, “but they cannot expect not to be questioned if a crime is taking place in their locality. “At least Mr. Gold should be happy that we are investigating his complaint.”

“Far from it!” his brother groused. “He was all for letting the matter drop, but his brother Anthony, who was only at the house for a few nights before sailing off to Ceylon or some such hole, complained about being kept awake during his brief stopover, and Mr. Gold felt obliged to tell the constable who came round what he himself had heard.”

“Where does Mr. Anthony Gold sleep?” Cas asked. His brother looked surprised at the question, as was I.

“I cannot see what that has to do with anything”, he said. “But actually, he did mention it in his statement. The basement; he has his own key, and his brother was not even aware that he was there until the day of his departure. Do you think....?”

“We need to see that basement”, Cas said firmly. “I assume Mr. Sebastian Gold is at work. Does he keep servants in the house?”

“No”, his brother said. “He had a woman who comes in and does for him to keep the place clean, a Mrs. Barlow who lives just down the road in the flats. She comes in every morning at around eleven, but only does the basement when specially asked. Why are you interested in that?”

Cas did not answer him, but checked his watch before hurrying over to number 99. Like all the houses, it had two front entrances, a main one and a small one for the basement, accessed down a flight of stone steps behind a rusting iron railing. Cas hurried down and tried the door, then took something out of his pocket. His brother was barely into an objection before something clicked (it always worried me how good a criminal my friend was when needed) and he all but ran into the room.

The basement room was much as expected, dirty and spectacularly ordinary. The three pieces of furniture were a bed, hard up against the left-hand wall, a dresser not far from it, and a wash-stand that had clearly not been used for at least some days. 

“Who lives in number 103?” Cas asked his brother.

“A family called the Thompsons”, Balthazar Novak said. “But they are away visiting an elderly relative in Scotland, and have been for the past three weeks.”

“Interesting”, Cas said with a smile. “By the way, you did not tell me what Mr. Sebastian Gold does for a living?”

His questions were by this time clearly annoying his brother, but he still answered. 

“He works as a clerk down in the docks”, he said. “Actually he is a manager, with three clerks underneath him.”

“Then the case is solved”, Cas said simply.

“How?” his brother asked at once. Cas smiled.

“Tomorrow you should send a team of officers to search number 99 from top to bottom”, Cas told him. “You might inform the Romanian ambassador, and for that matter the American one, of your plans close beforehand, just so they do not get their feathers even more ruffled over their citizens being drawn into a criminal investigation.”

“And what are they looking for?” his brother asked.

“If I told you that, they might well find it”, Cas said crisply. “Dean and I are attending one of his surgery functions tomorrow evening, at Lady Hoveringham's house in Grosvenor Square, but if you care to drop by, I shall be in a position to tell all.”

I quietly loved it when his brother had that look of intense frustration on his face at Cas' teasing. Though judging from the glare I got as he left, not quietly enough.

+~+~+

The following day was one of heavy rain, beating hard against the Baker Street windows. Cas had gone out into the deluge (much against my wishes) in order to check finalize his investigations, and when he came back he looked like a drowned rat. I hurried to get him out of those wet clothes – no, not for that, at least not this time – and soon had him dry, warm and relaxing in his dressing-gown, his permanently messy hair nestling against my thigh as he lay on the couch. This was sheer domesticated bliss, and I was the luckiest alpha ever to be experiencing it.

After a good dinner before leaving (Lady Hoveringham's events were renowned for small, fancy 'portions' that always failed to fill one up), we dressed ourselves for the ordeal ahead. As usual we had to start at least an hour ahead of our planned departure time, as the sight of that beautiful man in formal clothes never failed to make me immediately want to get him out of them again, and I was almost hyperventilating as I dragged him back to his room and took him with a muffled roar, again thankful that we had such distant (and probably conveniently hard-of-hearing) co-tenants.

We were out barely five minutes late, which was good for us, and made it to Hoveringham House to be greeted by Lady Hoveringham herself. She was the first of the evening to give Cas a predatory look, and I moved instinctively closer to the man. Honestly, the woman was sixty, and married with four children! Though I also knew that Cas enjoyed it when I got jealous and/or possessive, and that it would add an edge to our love-making later that evening. Possibly even in an upstairs room here, if we could find an empty one.

Unfortunately, all that would have to wait, as Balthazar Novak was already at the house when we arrived, and clearly impatient to speak with us. Cas of course made sure to meet and greet all the important people first, brazenly ignoring his brother's foot-tapping and angry glares, before finally leading us away to a side-room where we could talk undisturbed. Or at least undisturbed by people; whoever had chosen the décor for this room had clearly thought that magenta and bright yellow would work together. They did not.

“I had six officers search that house from top to bottom”, Balthazar Novak groused, “and they found nothing worse than an erotic magazine in the possession of Mr. Jehu Markland. For which his wife not unnaturally gave him some gyp, but that apart, nothing, Castiel. Sweet nothing!”

“That is good”, Cas said dryly. “That is exactly what I expected you to find.”

His brother looked at him in shock.

“What?” he spluttered. 

IV

“I wished you to make a fuss of searching that house because I wished the culprit in this matter to think themselves in the clear”, Cas said. “Today, in between dodging the Good Lord's attempt to recreate the great flood, I discovered two things about that person. First, I found that they have an in-depth knowledge of numismatics. And second, I obtained proof that they have been creating fake coins.”

“I still do not see why coins and not notes”, I put in. Cas turned to me.

Cas gave his brother one of those knowing smiles which, I knew from experience, annoyed him mightily. Balthazar Novak huffed impatiently.

“I fully expected your men to find nothing at 99 East Smithfield”, he explained. “Indeed, had you handed over all the information at your command rather than forcing me to go out in what turned out to be an apocalyptic downpour, I might have felt more inclined to help you. Take your men back to the area tomorrow, and search the house next door, number 101. Inside you will find a small coining apparatus, as well as sufficient chemicals to fake some of the most high-quality coins I have ever had the pleasure of viewing.”  
   
“What?” his brother exclaimed. “How can you know that?”  
   
“You withheld the small but interesting fact that, whilst the company that employs Mr. Sebastian Gold does most of its business dealing in spices and general trade from India, they run a small but lucrative side-line”, Cas said. “For a price, they will ship small but highly-prized items, most usually stamps, books and coins, from anywhere around the world. Transporting such items is a high-risk business; I believe one particularly rare stamp recently sold for almost a quarter of a million pounds sterling recently, simply because of a minor printing error in its manufacture. And England is rich enough to have people who can afford not only to buy such items, but to pay for the best in shipping and security.”  
   
“Mr. Anthony Gold, the sailor?” I asked. Cas shook his head.  
   
“Poor Mr. Anthony is, in some ways, a victim here”, he said. “He has never worked for his brother’s company. Mr. Sebastian Gold, on the other hand, has acquired an in-depth knowledge of the coin-making process, and over doubtless many years has perfected the art of producing a near-perfect fake. Books and stamps are hard to copy, but a coin is so much easier, and the recipient, having paid so much, would probably assume initially that what they had fetched from halfway round the world was precisely what it seemed. Mr. Sebastian Gold, meanwhile, was waiting for a sizeable enough shipment that he could produce a fake of, and then abscond to a new life elsewhere in the world where he could purchase a new identity, no questions asked.”  
   
“You are guessing, Cassie!” his brother scoffed.  
   
Cas fixed him with an icy glare. He reddened.  
   
“Sorry”, he said. “Castiel.”  
   
“Better”, Cas said firmly. “A sailor leads a somewhat irregular life, so naturally the brothers had an arrangement that Mr. Anthony Gold – whom, I might add, knows nothing of his brother’s criminal tendencies – had a key to the basement, to use as and when he required. It was his brother’s bad luck that one such short stopover occurred at precisely the time that Mr. Sebastian was using his tools to create the fake set of coins that, he hoped, would set him up for life. His brother's hammering woke him up, but of course he thought the noise was coming from next door. You will remember that his bed was on the side of the wall adjoining number 99.”  
   
“We would need proof for a second raid in the area”, Balthazar Novak said dubiously.  
   
“I thought you might”, Cas said, “so I took the precaution of breaking into number 101 a second time earlier today, and I retrieved a set of Mr. Sebastian Gold’s cuffs.”  
   
“His cuffs?” I asked, now totally confused.  
   
Cas smiled, and took a set of somewhat dirty white cuffs from his pocket. Laying them out on the coffee-table, he then produced a small bottle from his other pocket.  
   
“Vinegar”, he explained. “I purloined it from the serving-table just after we arrived.”  
   
I had not even seen him go near that table!  
   
He applied the brown liquid liberally all over the cuffs, which at once began smoking gently and hissing. Both Balthazar Novak and I stared in puzzlement.  
   
“The coining process creates minuscule zinc and other metallic filings”, Cas explained, “which shoot up when the fake coin is hammered out and embed themselves in the skin of the coiner. I had hoped to find a pair of gloves there which would have had even more in them, but he has hidden them too well, and I was not able to stay long, as the cleaner almost caught me. Vinegar is, of course, diluted acetic acid, which as you can see reacts with zinc. I am sure if you told a judge that a pair of cuffs had fallen out of Mr. Sebastian Gold’s laundry and come into your possession, and you thereby had reason to suspect him guilty of creating false coin – well, our judiciary has a variable reputation at times, but I am sure you would get your warrant.”  
   
He did. And soon after, he got Mr. Sebastian Gold, who instead of the incomparable wealth he had been angling for, got a lengthy spell at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Indeed, he was fortunate he got that, as creating false coin for currency usage was a hanging offence. Cas, very fairly, sent in a statement to the judge that pointed out the coins created were for individual profit, not general circulation, and it may have been that which saved him.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Cas insisted that we remain in the room for a little while, as he had some further 'experiments' that he wished to conduct. It was two hours before we resumed the party, him with a smirk a mile wide and me with a cock-ring and a plug, and an even bigger smirk. Though the cab-ride back to Baker Street was… well, uncomfortable.  
   
+~+~+  
   
And next, finally! It is the famous Abernetty case, involving the parsley that sank too far into the butter, a case where Cas proved even more devious that I could ever have thought!  
 


	10. Case 100: Meta Fiction (1900)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second-most requested of our previously unpublished cases, the affair of the Abernetty family and just why the parsley was allowed to sink into the butter.

I

It was typical of Cas that, after the conclusion to this case, he apologized profusely and promised me that I should not have to include it amongst the cases I wrote up at once. However, with the passage of time I have (just about) forgiven him for what he did, and am including it to show just how devious a bastard he could be when he put his mind to it. It took me some time to forgive him, but he could be very persuasive when the need arose.

It took him three whole days, mind!

+~+~+

Apart from his youth, Mr. Meredith Jarvis was the very epitome of the English butler, I thought as the handsome young alpha sat in the famous fireside chair in Baker Street. The fact he had brought a copy of my latest book, detailing several of the cases since Cas' return (with illustrations) showed remarkably good taste, in my opinion, compounded by the fact he also had the latest edition of the Strand magazine with the final installment of Thor Bridge in it. Though his request was... odd, to say the least.

“I can see by the expression on the doctor's face that he does not consider that you have given us much to go on”, Cas smiled. “A small piece of herbage following the laws laid down by Sir Isaac Newton – it seems only natural. But let us run through the sequence of events, such as they are, and see what we can see. Tell us about your employers.”

“I should probably explain first that I was trained up as a butler by my late father, who emigrated to the United States last March with his employers, the Pendragon-Woolfords”, our visitor began. “There was no other post vacant with them, and their cousins the Abernettys were just about to see their own butler retire. Despite my relative youth – yes, doctor, I know butlers should be at least thirty years of age! - I was given the post.”

My face reddened. I had been thinking exactly that. Cas looked at me knowingly.

“Where do your employers live?” he asked, mercifully sparing my blushes.

“Whitsun House, near Alexandra Palace”, he said. “It is a most exclusive area, and the family is quite rich. When I started in May, it consisted of old Mr. Abernetty, his omega grandson Wilfred who was then nineteen years of age, and Mr. Abernetty's niece Mrs. Barlow and her husband. Neither of those two are blood relatives; Mrs. Barlow was married to Mr. Abernetty's nephew Mr. Gareth, and he died in a railway accident. But they effectively ran the household, fully after Mr. Abernetty died in July. Old age, I hasten to add; he was over eighty.”

“What happened to young Mr. Abernetty's parents?” I inquired.

“Old Mr. Abernetty's son was in the Army, and died in that awful war against the Boers”, Mr. Jarvis said. “A place called Ladysmith, about two years back. I understood that his mate and the late Mr. Abernetty did not get on, especially after the former remarried within months of Mr. Peter's death, and chose to stay in Africa. Young Mr. Abernetty was sent back to England, as he was then heir to the estate.”

Cas looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you happen to know who is next in line after him?” he asked. 

“Mrs. Balcombe, the cook, mentioned that there is a male cousin living somewhere in the North of England, sirs”, he said. “She did not know where, but she said that they have never visited the house, and did not even get invited to the funeral. She told me that she had reason to believe Mrs. Barlow was not overly fond of the man.”

“Curious”, Cas said. “What is your opinion of young Mr. Abernetty, pray?”

The young man blushed.

“I have only seen him once”, he said. “He is not really the typical modern teenager, I would say; white-blond, thin and very quiet. He keeps to his own rooms, and does not go out. Mrs. Barlow is, ahem, rather strict.”

“And Mrs. Barlow – or her husband – runs the estate for him?” Cas asked.

“That was laid down in the late Mr. Abernetty's will, I presume”, the butler said. He extracted a notebook. “But to the events that bring me here. I should explain that I have a small room in the servants' quarters at Whitsun House. It is not locked as I have little there worth taking; I have lodgings some three streets away. On Thursday October the fourth, someone entered my room and looked through my few possessions.”

“How do you know?” I asked. He blushed again.

“I am something of a fan of your works”, he said to me, looking far too ashamed for exhibiting such excellent taste. “I always arrange your books in order of publication, and I keep a bookmark to show where I am up to. That Thursday I returned to my room, and not only were the books out of sequence, but the bookmark had fallen out. I eventually found it under the chair on the other side of the room, which I rarely use. I would not have mentioned it, but I know from your writings that small things are sometimes important. And this was the day before the incident of the butter.”

“Go on”, Cas said.

“The next day – Friday - Betty, the maid, took up some bread and butter for young Mr. Abernetty”, he said. “It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and he or Mrs. Barlow usually sent down for cakes or refreshments of some sort around that time. Betty took them to Mrs. Barlow's room, which is next door to Mr. Abernetty's. When she came back, she said that Mrs. Barlow and her husband had been having 'a blazing row', and that the lady had told her to come back for the tray in an hour or so. She did, and then returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Balcombe and I were taking tea. Young Mr. Abernetty had eaten the bread and used some of the butter, but the rest of the butter was almost melted, the parsley had sunk right into it.”

“In just an hour?” I said, surprised.

“That was what was so odd”, he said. “No-one thought much about it at the time however, because of the fair.”

“What fair?” Cas asked.

“The next day, there was to be a fair held in the palace grounds”, he explained. “Mrs. Barlow had promised that we could all go in the afternoon if we got everything done in the morning. However, that morning Mr. Barlow came down and told us that his wife had 'moved out for some time alone'. Of course we all thought that was it, but he insisted that we go anyway, as he would welcome the peace and quiet. Naturally no-one argued.”

“Of course not”, Cas smiled. “Two more questions, if I may. Is young Mr. Abernetty seeing anyone?”

“Not a chance, with those two watchdogs!” the butler said fervently. “But with his wealth, I would expect lots of people to want to marry him. Especially if they could do so before he comes of age, and gain control of his fortune.”

“I see”, Cas said. “And to finish. Did Mrs. Barlow take any of the servants with her?”

Our guest frowned.

“I suppose that was another odd thing”, he said. “Luke – Mr. Barlow's valet – went with her, along with her own maid, Judith. I believe that she and her husband have a house at Chingford, so I suppose she went there.”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “Your case is rather more complicated than some rapidly-melting butter, Mr. Jarvis. Thank you for bringing it to our attention. We shall undertake to investigate it – but I should warn you, do not mention your visit here to anyone in Whitsun House. Not even to those you think you can trust.”

“I promise”, the butler said.

+~+~+

To my surprise, Cas did not seem to actually do anything in pursuit of the Abernetty Affair over the next few days. Indeed, the next development was a further visit from Mr. Jarvis, precisely one week later.

“It is my half-day”, he explained, “and I did not want to attract suspicion by trying to contact you sooner.”

“What has happened?” Cas asked.

“Nothing at the house”, our visitor said, “but I found something when I was tidying my room the other day. I have all the books of your adventures of course, but I also have the original Strand stories – my brother is a dentist, and he has them for his surgery. You will remember how I said that some of the books had been put back out of order?”

“Yes?” Cas said.

“I was looking for a particular story, and I realized that some of them were missing”, he said. One from each of four stories wasn't there. The weird thing was that when I looked for them, I found them almost immediately. Someone had placed them in an empty drawer in the wardrobe. I just don't see why.”

Cas wandered over to the window and looked out onto the street. He had done that just after the butler arrived, I noticed. I wondered why.

“Which stories?” he asked without turning round. The butler took out and opened his notebook.

“'Abandon All Hope', Part Three. 'No Exit', Part Two. 'Rock And A Hard Place', Part Five. And 'It's A Terrible Life', Part Four.”

I was becoming skilled by this time at reading Cas' face. Though there was not even the slightest twitch, I somehow knew that he had gathered something from that list. 

II

“Make a note of those, doctor”, he said, unnecessarily. “They may be important. Tell me Mr. Jarvis, would either of the Barlows have had cause to enter your room for any reason?”

“No, sir. Though of course as the master and mistress of the house for now, they have the right if they so wish.”

Castiel thought for a moment, then leaned forward.

“Mr. Jarvis”, he said, “we are entering an important phase in this investigation. You were right to take care, and not rush over here. However, it is my belief that, for all that you have found so far, there may be an additional message located somewhere in your room. You must return to Whitsun House, and search the room thoroughly, from end to end. If you find something, be sure that no-one is around to witness it, and tell no-one, not even your fellow servants. Act as sagely as you have thus far, and use your next half-day to go to the telegraph office and communicate any findings with us.”

The man's eyes widened in fear.

“Not come here?” he said.

Cas stood and went over to the window.

“You may have been followed here today”, he said. “That man down in the clothes-shop across the way is Feniton, a professional watcher. However, he was not there when you arrived – I checked – so has in all probability been sent here to see if you came. We will take advantage of that fact, and the doctor will escort you out the back way, and show you the way to the station from there. Is there anything else?”

The young man scratched his head.

“Well, there was the chocolate éclair.”

“What about it?” Cas asked.

“Young Mr. Abernetty doesn't like anything with chocolate on”, he said. “But we had a new maid start this week, Phyllis, and she took some out of the pantry and up to him. A good thing Mrs. Barlow wasn't around; she was always very strict about the poor man's diet, though I always thought that was because it meant more food for her. Yet when the plate came back down, both éclairs were gone.”

“Possibly Mr. Barlow ate them?” I suggested. The butler shook his head.

“He was downstairs at the time, writing", he said. "And Phyllis does not like anything with cream."

“He left no-one to guard the precious”, Cas observed. “Thank you, Mr. Jarvis. The doctor will show you out now.”

I did, taking the man out through the back door as requested. I noticed as we left that Cas was once more watching the street from the window, but did not remark on the fact. Our guest was nervous enough as it was.

+~+~+

“So what was with the magazines?” I asked on my return.

“A cry for help”, he said. “Cleverly done, too. Let us hope it has not come too late.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If you apply the part numbers to the titles, you get the words Hope, Exit, Life and Place”, he said. The first letters of which make the word 'help'. Someone entered Mr. Jarvis' room and deliberately selected those magazines, hoping both that he would come here and that he would convey the message.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Clearly it was young Mr. Abernetty”, he said. “Consider the chain of events. Old Mr. Abernetty dies, and his estate falls into the hands of his niece and her husband. They will be in control for a year at most, before their charge comes of age. In that time they can strip it bare – but there is a problem. Because he is over eighteen, young Mr. Abernetty's signature is required for any changes, and he will not do as he is told.”

“He is being held prisoner?” I gasped. He nodded.

“It seems so”, he said gravely. “I really would like to search Mr. Jarvis' room thoroughly myself, for I suspect that he has indeed left him something there, but any suspicion of my involvement in the case would endanger young Mr. Abernetty's life.”

“But if they killed him, the distant cousin would inherit”, I pointed out. 

“That may not stop them”, he said. “This is difficult. I would like to find out more about this cousin, but I fear Mr. Jarvis may call on me at any time despite my warning, and I do not want to leave Baker Street.”

“I can go to Somerset House”, I offered. “It is not far, and would not take me long.”

He smiled at me.

“Thank you, Dean.”

+~+~+

I hurried up the stairs and fairly burst through the door. Cas looked up in surprise.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I found the cousin”, I panted. “A first cousin once removed, descended from the late Mr. Abernetty's father, who married a girl from Buxton, in Derbyshire. He is an alpha called Mr. Gustavus Abernetty, and he moved down South six months ago. Guess where?”

“Chingford”, Cas said at once.

I do not think I have ever deflated so fast.

“You knew!” I said accusingly.

“I suspected”, he grinned. “Tell me what you found out about this new Abernetty.”

“He is forty-five, and registered as a 'businessman'”, I said. “A widower; he married an heiress called Miss Bulstrode and inherited a whole set of factories from her, but sold them all off after she died two years back, except for one in London which he still owns. They make buttons.”

“An alpha widower whose wife died”, Cas said. “That is serious.”

“Why?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because the Church of England would not prevent him from marrying his cousin, to keep the estate in the family”, Cas said grimly. “Their rules on omegas are still archaic, and I am sure the Barlows could find a priest to carry out the ceremony, even if the omega made it quite clear that it was against his wishes.”

“Such a travesty would be overturned by any court!” I protested.

“Who would challenge it?” Cas said. “There would be no-one to defend the man's interests, and I feel fairly certain that the poor boy would 'have an accident' not long after the wedding, in which case all his worldly goods would become his mate's.”

“We would challenge it!” I said hotly.

“But they do not know of our involvement yet, and we must keep it that way”, Cas reminded me. “I wonder what Mr. Jarvis will find when he gets back to Alexandra Palace tonight?”

III

Another week passed, and still Cas seemed little interested in the case. The only event of interest was that Sergeant Baldur called round, and told us that he was applying for promotion to inspector. He also brought some news of Cas' orphanage, which was having a major refurbishment at his expense. I nearly missed him, having gone to the library to to do some research. 

Saturday was Mr. Jarvis's half-day this week, and I wondered if he would call round, despite the warning not to. The morning passed butler-less, but just after lunch he was announced.

“You were right on both counts, Mr. Novak”, he said breathlessly. “I did find something, a hand-written note folded behind the chest of drawers.”

He handed it to Cas, who read it quickly before passing it to me:

'They want me to marry my cousin, Gustavus Abernetty. He is over forty, fat, bald and disgusting. I refused, but they said that they would do it anyway. I am afraid they will drug me, and bribe a priest to do it anyway. Help me!

Wilfred Abernetty (Mr.)'

“You were right”, I told Cas. “What now?”

“This has gone on long enough”, he said grimly. “We will effect a rescue of the man at once! Mr. Jarvis, we will need your help.”

“Of course”, the butler said stoutly. “Er, how?”

“Only you can recognize young Mr. Abernetty”, he said, as if it were obvious. “Besides, they may even have disguised him. Come, doctor. We shall take a cab and fetch the man from the clutches of those damnable relatives of his!”

+~+~+

“I was followed”, Mr. Jarvis said. “But I took a trick out of one of your books, doctor; 'Bloodlines'. I went to Palace Gates Station and boarded a train at the back, then jumped out the other side and hid behind it. My pursuer didn't get off, and I went to the main Palace station on the Great Northern line instead. I only hope I shook him off.”

“There was no-one outside when we left Baker Street”, Cas said. “I must say that this was all very cleverly planned. The Barlows knew from experience that young Mr. Abernetty would not fall in with their scheme to strip the estate bare, so they decided to force him into marriage with his cousin who, I am sorry, to say, was all to willing to go along with the scheme.”

“Despicable!” I ground out. Mr. Jarvis nodded in agreement.

“They plan to remove him from the house and substitute Mrs. Barlow for him for a short time”, Cas went on. “It was only practical because they had ensured none of the servants saw him after they had taken over, and it would only be for a short time. The idea was that, a day before the fair, Mr. and Mrs. Barlow would stage a huge argument, after which she would storm out of the house and go to her cousin's house in Chingford. Then, when all the servants were away at the fair the following day, a drugged Monseigneur Abernetty would be smuggled from the house and taken to Chingford, and Mrs. Barlow would take her place. However, young Mr. Abernetty chanced to overheard their scheming, and made plans of his own.”

“He knows some of the servants are in support of his grasping relatives, so he alights on the relative newcomer”, Cas said, looking at Mr. Jarvis. “He was the one who went into your room and artfully rearranged your books, moved certain magazines and left the message behind the drawer. He also chose you because of your interest in my work, hoping – correctly, and fortunately – that his 'breaking and entering' and what he was about to do would make you come to me.”

“He then returned to his room and ordered a plate of bread and butter. But he used as little of the butter as possible, and deliberately placed the plate over a table-lamp, so it melted. He foresaw, again correctly, that you, Mr. Jarvis, would be intrigued by something so odd.”

The butler reddened, and looked out of the window.

“We have just passed King's Cross”, he said, surprised.

“Of course”, Cas said. “ Young Mr. Abernetty is being held prisoner in Chingford. We are headed to Liverpool Street, from where we will effect the rescue.”

He nodded.

“We'll save him!” he muttered.

+~+~+

The suburban train journey from Liverpool Street seemed to take forever, but at last we were steaming into the Essex town's little terminus. I was more than a little surprised to find Sergeant Baldur waiting for us outside the station. The Metropolitan Police's local stations were often fiercely territorial, and for one to affect an arrest on another's patch was considered unwarranted unless there was a very good reason for it. I would have asked Cas about it, but he was clearly focussed on the task ahead.

The four of us took two cabs to a quiet side-street called Bellevue Terrace, and stopped some distance away from a rather ugly large brick house that, Cas said, was where the cousin, Mr. Gustavus Abernetty, lived. To my surprise there was a cab waiting outside it, and as the four of us approached, two men and a woman came out of the house, the men dragging a barely-conscious omega between them.

“That's him!” Mr. Jarvis ground out. “Young Mr. Abernetty!”

The three people looked up at his shout, and the woman immediately ran back into the house and slammed the door. One of the men dropped his hold of the omega and advanced, but a clearly furious Mr. Jarvis stepped forward and punched him so hard he fell to the floor motionless, moaning softly. Sergeant Baldur quickly had his cuffs out and on the other man, who had raised his hands in surrender.

“Mr. Lucas Williams, Mr. Gustavus Abernetty”, the sergeant said grimly. “I arrest you both in the name of the law. I hereby remind you that anything you say can and will be used in evidence against you.”

Mr. Gustavus Abernetty, presumably the handcuffed man from his better quality clothes, growled, whilst Mr. Williams moaned again. Cas, apparently the only one of us with any sense, had rushed forward to help up the fallen omega, who uttered a pitiful cry. Mr. Jarvis hurried to assist him.

“I really think it is best if you take young Mr. Abernetty back to Whitsun House”, Cas said to the butler. “He has been through a most shocking experience. I am sure the sergeant can collect any testimony from him at a future date, once he is fully recovered.”

“That would be... nice”, the omega said faintly, before looking vaguely at Mr. Jarvis. “Do I know you?”

“Jarvis, your butler, sir”, the alpha said, easily taking the omega's full weight as Cas stood back. “Don't worry. You're safe now.”

His burden giggled slightly – I presumed that he was drugged – and all but draped himself over the poor butler, who flushed bright red. Fortunately he was still able to support his weight, and with my help they made it to the cab and were driven off. 

What happened next left me speechless.

IV

Once the cab was out of sight, the downed Mr. Williams scrambled to his feet, apparently effecting a Lazarine recovery, and the other woman – the maid, Judith, I remembered – came out of the house and walked up to Cas. Sergeant Baldur swiftly removed the cuffs from Mr. Abernetty. Cas smiled at them all.

“Thank you for all your help these past few weeks”, he said, handing each of the three some notes. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Doctor”, the sergeant whispered from behind me, “your mouth is hanging open!”

I walked round and stood in front of Cas, who looked at me innocently as the three people ambled away back into the house.

“Care to share?” I ground out. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Why, doctor”, he smiled, “I am doing what I always do. Protecting the interests of my client. Young Mr. Wilfred Abernetty.”

I was dimly aware that I was doing that goldfish impression again, but words failed me.

“Your..... client?” I managed at last. He nodded.

“He decided when he first saw him that he was going to marry Mr. Jarvis”, he said. “But he also quickly ascertained that his prey was of the belief that the classes do not and cannot mix. So he came to me, and these last few months we, with the assistance of his most obliging family, have effected his plan to turn an English butler into a dashing hero who rescued him from the clutches of his evil, money-grubbing relatives.”

“Who were all in on it?” I said, grinding my teeth.

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” I all but shouted.

“Because you are too honest, doctor”, he said with a smile. “You wear your heart on your sleeve. And you are infinitely more believable when acting out a romantic scene like this one, which we had to make Mr. Jarvis believe in.”

“But what about when he finds out?” I asked.

“He will not”, Cas said. “Hence our old friend here rather than the local police, who might have actually tried to make a real arrest. Another satisfied client, I think. And I shall look forward to your writing up this case.”

“Hmph! I grunted.

+~+~+

I did not sulk all the way back to Baker Street. I was just a little annoyed.

All right, I was cross, and it was only made worse by the fact that I knew Cas was right. I was hopeless at lying for any length of time, and my account of Cas' 'death' some nine years back had been rendered infinitely more believable because I believed him dead when I had written it, even if the actual facts I put out were mostly fiction. But it still rankled that he had not trusted me.

He said nothing about my childishness, which was generous of him, but when I went to bed that night I pointedly closed the door behind me. Yes, I was being both petty and petulant, but then Mr. Darwin had said we were evolved from ape-like creatures that had fallen out of trees relatively recently on a geological time-frame, so I had the right.

I jumped when I felt Cas slipping into bed behind me, but remained facing away from him. 

“You are upset with me”, he whispered. I do not know why he always kept his voice low at times like these; our rooms were mercifully well removed from those of the house's other tenants, which was often just as well. He ran a hand down my back, and I shuddered.

“I just wish you had told me”, I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice, and failing miserably. “You're my mate, Cas.”

He slid a little closer, and I was about to turn to face him when I felt something. Reaching down, I felt around his waist, and what I found made all the blood in my body make a simultaneous bee-line for my lower brain.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Are you wearing.... my panties?”

“No, Dean.”

“But....”

“These are my own, Dean. Bought especially for you.”

I whimpered, then turned with surprising speed for an alpha in his late forties and pushed him over onto his back. He went willingly, a slow smile creasing his features.

“You do know it's going to take more than that to win me over?” I said, trying to keep my cool. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Really?” he asked.

I snarled, and pushed his legs into the air, shoving the panties out of the way and scissoring him open far faster than usual. He grunted pleasurably, and I set about demonstrating to him just how annoyed I really was.

It was a very thorough demonstration. One I felt compelled to repeat. Twice.

+~+~+

England's smallest county would be the scene of our next adventure – and a crime that shook me to the core....


End file.
